


hampton academy

by boleynqueens



Category: 16th Century CE RPF, The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Diary/Journal, Epistolary, F/M, Gen, High School
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-06-03 09:38:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6605833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boleynqueens/pseuds/boleynqueens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Why are you such a bitch?" </p><p>"Dunno," she replied with an ineffable shrug, "probably the same reason you're such a prince."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so...this started as something i just scribbled down in my notebook during my volunteer tutoring shifts at the library? (if no one needs help they tell us we can work on our homework and...i should've studied for econ 101 more but i did this instead).
> 
> but i got really inspired and it turned into ~this
> 
> i think it's (correct me if i'm wrong) the first high school au for tudors? so that's something. besides the published novel: http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/22453734-anne-henry
> 
> which...no offense, but read the preview and did not care for it.
> 
> this is also inspired by: http://thetudorsdaily.tumblr.com/post/129077136791/henry-anne-school-cliques-au
> 
> who knew that when i reblogged it with the tags "if i can't get a college or hs au for henry/anne i'm going to write one" that i would write...both? (http://archiveofourown.org/works/5543693/chapters/12788132)
> 
> oops.
> 
> but this one i'm planning on making totally epistolary (told via notes passed in class, text messages, diary entries, notes in general, letters, emails, etc.), and it's set in 2002, and it's going to be a lot lighter than whitehall. not so heavy on the reincarnation stuff, but still with the occasional historical easter egg, much like this one: http://archiveofourown.org/works/6074823/chapters/13923135 (minus the smut...for now)
> 
> a thank you to loyaltybindshim is owed! for reading it and telling me it Did Not Suck. i'm hoping, for your sake, that she didn't just say that to spare my feelings.

 

**Diary of Anne Boleyn:**

September 28, 2002, Saturday, 8:31 PM

Saw a boy while the headmaster gave me a tour of Hampton Academy yesterday.

Or, rather, while I was wandering through the school by myself, afterwards.

He wasn't cuter than Harry, or anything, of course. But, he was quite handsome. Remarkably so: Greek nose, long lashes and a full mouth that were almost…too feminine? I guess he's more beautiful than handsome, really. High cheekbones, ridiculous model stuff, really. The only flaw I could discern was a slight bump in his nose, and he has this thick, auburn hair, and usually boys with red hair are…gangly and unattractive looking, but! Not this one.

I was in the class garden (there were bunnies there! so cute), and it faces the library there. His back was to a bookshelf, facing the window overlooking the garden. He was scribbling in a notebook, rather furiously, intent, even, but then I saw these boys run down between the bookshelves, laughing, and he put it away really quick, before his friends could see, I guess.

I wonder if it was a journal.

Anyways, it's of little importance. I still can't believe my dad is making me go there. I wanted to finish the rest of my high school education in France, and I told him so. But he suddenly decided that I need to "reacclimatize to American life", just assuming I'd even want to go to university here.

Also, we don't have to pay the exorbitant tuition since he's taking over the teaching position of this old man that's retiring. So it's "convenient".

Why am I not starting on the first day of school like everyone else, I asked? Apparently he spoke to his therapist (my father is not depressed, he is quite possibly the most self-satisfied person I know, him having a therapist is quite a joke, I think he honestly just likes talking about himself) who "specializes in youth counseling" and high school students said that students that start at a new school later than their peers are paid more attention to and people are more eager to meet them? And introduce themselves?

Mom said "oh, that makes sense. You have to pique their curiosity!"

It's a stretch. Sounds like bullshit to me, actually.

And who says I want to be paid more attention to? I am smothered with it as is. There's a reason I applied to elite schools far, far away, and it's not just that I received offers based on my test scores.

* * *

 

**Diary of Henry Tudor**

September 28, 2002, Saturday, 9:00 PM

Dad caught me smoking a cigarette in my room. He didn't knock, of course, and I was blowing smoke out the window, but still, he definitely saw me.

All he said was, "Dinner's ready," before shutting the door.

I know he didn't tell Mom, or I would've heard an earful from her by now (she doesn't know I smoke, because she knocks\-- a quaint concept in the Tudor household, certainly not one my sisters have ever followed…I'm sure Margot's seen quite a bit more of my…extracurricular activities than she'd like to have, for this reason).

I should feel relieved, right? ~~But I feel…disappointed?~~

~~For some reason.~~

I don't know. It's stupid.

The fact that I still have this fucking diary is stupid. 

We all had to start one, last year, for English, but I…kept writing in mine.

More promised he wouldn't read them, just scan to see that words had been written, and I assume he's not lying. Mainly because, to test this theory, I wrote explicitly, borderline pornographic accounts of…extracurricular activities. And drug use.

AND given that he's so moralistic or what-the-fuck-ever, he would've given me a lecture if he had.

But anyway, English is taught by Cromwell now (the course is…"Spring in Love", which I and every other dude, apparently, enrolled in expecting a high female to male ratio when it's actually only half and half like every other class), and he's not into shit like journals.

Or human emotion.

So the fact that he's the teacher for a class called "Spring in Love" is quite possibly one of the funniest things of my goddamn life.

* * *

 

> **to: henry tudor**
> 
> **from: charles brandon**
> 
> **sms sent: 9:01 AM, sept. 30, 2002**
> 
> do u c the mary? 2'o'clock?
> 
> **to: brandon**
> 
> no1 says mary but u. stop trying 2 make it a thing.
> 
> **to: tudor**
> 
> they so do.
> 
> **to: brandon**
> 
> yeah, i promise u they don't.
> 
> **to: tudor**
> 
> whatever. nice, no?
> 
> **to: brandon**
> 
> not my type.
> 
> **to: tudor**
> 
> ur type is hot, and she is. ooo, she's talking 2 aragon…
> 
> **to: brandon**
> 
> and we should care why?
> 
> **to: tudor**
> 
> 2 mary's…
> 
> **to: brandon**
> 
> u know aragon would take that as a compliment, rite?
> 
> **to: tudor**
> 
> …sitting in a tree…
> 
> **to: brandon**
> 
> don't do this.
> 
> **to: tudor**
> 
> K-I-S-S-I-N-G
> 
> **to: brandon**
> 
> i'm turning my phone off now.

* * *

 

**Diary of Anne Boleyn**

September 30, 2002, Monday, 5:01 PM

One of the guys that was at the library (not the Writer, but one of his friends) tried to hit on me today.

So that was fun.

But I was transferred out of their most advanced French class, so that's one less with the Forward One.

(Not that it matters, but the Writer is not quite what I thought. He seems…cold. Though warm to his friends. He's clearly the leader, the most popular. Whoop de fucking doo.)

I made a friend, though, I think. Kate Aragon. She asked me how long I'd been taking French and I explained that I was more or less fluent, having spent the last three years in France, and she was very excited and asked if she could practice with me before class! So we talked in French for a bit.

Always refreshing to meet someone else that takes their education seriously.

After I turned down Forward One's proposal, he muttered, "yeah, whatever, Mary," and kept calling me that every time I saw him afterwards. The Writer rolled his eyes when he did, but the rest of their group laughed.

I asked Kate what it meant and she laughed and said, "Like the Virgin Mary."

"I beg your pardon?"

"It means he thinks you're a brownnoser, or an innocent. He used to call me that, too."

"What did you do about it?" I asked, as she twirled a lock of red hair around her finger, face screwed in contemplation as she leaned against her locker, as if she had to really go back in her memory to figure it out.

"Oh!" she said, snapping her fingers, "I said, 'if I'm the Virgin Mary, I may as well bless you with holy water', and dumped my water bottle over his head. He hasn't called me anything but Aragon since."

* * *

 

**Diary of Henry Tudor**

September 30, 2002, Monday, 5:21 PM

New girl today. She's nothing to write home about.

Madame Moreau asked her a question and they held a five minute conversation _en français_ , speaking rapidly.

I picked up most of it: Moreau basically told her she was too advanced for high school French, and I guess Brandon picked up on that bit too, since he coughed "brownnoser" as she gathered her books to head to the admissions office.

Moreau, of course, heard it and asked "what was that?"

Brandon said "nothing", and she snapped, "you should consider yourself lucky to have half Mademoiselle Boleyn's grasp of French, Monsieur Brandon," to which Brandon responded, "but, Madame Moreau, I already know everything in French one needs to know."

" _C'est vrai_?" she asked, crossing her arms

Then Brandon, being himself, answered:  " _Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir_?"

And she threw him out.

"Dibs on the Mary," he whispered on the way out.

"Suit yourself," I responded, because, as previously stated, she's not that great looking. Petite, brunette…I don't know. I didn't even get a good look, really.

Cute, I suppose, but I prefer curvy, blonde.

Brandon just wanted to take the opportunity to talk to the only girl at this school that didn't know his reputation, probably (although Aragon might've already told her).

But honestly, one of these days his mouth is going to get him in serious trouble.

I tire of defending his ass sometimes, but…I don't know. We've known each other forever. Sometimes I think I'm closer to him that my own, actual brother.

* * *

 

**Diary of Henry Tudor**

October 1, 2002, Tuesday, 4:11 PM

I edit my previous statement: she's nothing to write home about AND she's extremely irritating.

I'm enjoying some quality time with Andrea Hastings (and, believe you me, that quality time extends wellllll beyond those hallowed halls…let's just say those Ring Pops she sucks on are merely a preview) when I hear a shrill, "excuse me?"

Like I'm stopping for that.

"Could you make babies in front of your own locker, perhaps?"

At this (because really, who says shit like that? "perhaps"? is she fifty years old?) I broke away from the making out to the unfortunate, pinched face of the Boleyn girl.

Her little brow furrowed, face flushed, her skinny arms tight around the books to her rather nonexistent chest…a tragic picture, really, her, wearing two dark plaits like a goddamn kindergartener.

She hasn't hemmed the regulation plaid skirt, and I doubt she's going to. She and Aragon will be the last hold-outs on that front, I'm sure.

Which is a shame, really, because one of the only things Boleyn has going for her, looks-wise, is that her legs ~~are nice~~  aren't terrible.

"Oh, sweetheart. You think this," I said, wide-eyed, pointing between Andrea and I (the next bit earned a giggle, but those are pretty easy to earn from A), "is how babies are made? I do hope your parents signed the consent form for our sex ed class. They play a very informational video, should clear some things up for you."

Boleyn canted her head to the side and smiled.

So I'm thinking, is she thick or something, at first, then:

"And I'm sure you watch it every night with a bottle of lotion at your bedside," she said, honeyed tone matching her simper, dark brown eyes wide in pretended naiveté, "but, in between now and then, I need my Econ textbook."

Not the kind of comeback I expected from a Mary (Brandon's title might be off, after all), but it stunned me enough that I moved out of the way.

"You've got a sharp tongue," I said mildly, as she did the combination to her locker.

"Wish I could say the same about your mind."

Now, I took the bait at that. No one calls me dumb. I'm right under Aragon in the class ranking, head of the Debate Team, and I don’t cheat. Ever.

I could debate circles around this princess, I'm sure.

"Why are you such a bitch?"

"Dunno," she replied with an ineffable shrug, "probably the same reason you're such a prince."

And then, textbook in hand, she slammed her locker, turned to Andrea and I and said, "You realize she's been tugging at your sleeve for the last minute, no?"

Andrea dipped her head.

I guess she had been, but I was…distracted.

Boleyn patted her on the shoulder and said, to her, in a faux, audible whisper, "You could do better, you know," before sashaying away.

Grandma Margaret always says that "the Devil is a master of disguise and takes on many forms."

One of them is, apparently, the ninety nine pound form of Anne Boleyn.

I had to reassure A that I wasn't ignoring her for the rest of the day. What a pain in the ass that was.

According to Brandon, Boleyn shot him down yesterday, citing some boyfriend.

I'm so sure. Who'd want to go out with her? I don't think that level of masochism exists on this planet, honestly.

* * *

 

> **to: charles brandon**
> 
> **from: will compton**
> 
> **sms sent: 10:04 AM, october 2, 2002**
> 
> wtf was THAT about?
> 
> **to: compton**
> 
> fuck if i know.
> 
> **to: brandon**
> 
> "no one makes fun of boleyn but me"?
> 
> **to: compton**
> 
> idk. pass a note, this is hard 2 hide in class.
> 
> **to: brandon**
> 
> and risk psycho reading it? i think not.
> 
> **to: compton**
> 
> good point.
> 
> **to: brandon**
> 
> what does that even mean?
> 
> **to: compton**
> 
> like /i/ understand tudor??
> 
> **to: brandon**
> 
> ur his best friend.
> 
> **to: compton**
> 
> prob exactly what he said.
> 
> **to: brandon**
> 
> huh. poor knivert.
> 
> **to: compton**
> 
> "slab of granite" /was/ a bit harsh…
> 
> **to: brandon**
> 
> he didn't say it to her face!
> 
> **to: compton**
> 
> she has /something/
> 
> **to: brandon**
> 
> oh, fs. they're little, but they're there.
> 
> **to: compton**
> 
> maybe tudor wants to c them?
> 
> **to: brandon**.
> 
> pls, when /doesn't/ tudor want 2c them?
> 
> **to: compton**
> 
> tru, but…idk. idt he's ever slammed anyone against a locker 4 that sort of commentary.
> 
> **to: brandon**
> 
> right? it's not like she's his gf.
> 
> **to: compton**
> 
> it's weird, right?
> 
> **to: brandon**
> 
> VERY weird.
> 
> **to: compton**
> 
> well, i'm not saying a word about her.
> 
> **to: brandon**
> 
> same.
> 
> **to: compton**
> 
> to play it safe.
> 
> **to: brandon**
> 
> neither praise nor slander
> 
> **to: compton**
> 
> co-fucking-signed, man.

* * *

 

**Diary of Anne Boleyn**

October 2, 2002, Wednesday, 4:56 PM

I hate Henry Tudor.

So. Much.

(I can't believe he was Writer. I can’t believe it! I can't believe I saw him from a distance a few days ago and thought, 'oh, kindred spirits, maybe'. AS. IF.)

I guess he held a grudge from yesterday, because I'm eating the éclair I picked out this morning from a specialty bakery before school started (because I miss éclairs and good ones are hard to find, thank you very much) sitting on the front steps of the school with Kate (who was showing me the notes for our advanced English course, what a sweetheart, honestly) when who snatches it from my hand???

Take a wild fucking guess.

Then, because that is not enough, apparently, he actually has the audacity to shove the pastry into his stupid, pouty mouth!!

"Tudor!" Kate said, "give it back to her."

"Are you seriously friends with her now?" he asked, holding the éclair above his head (I tried to take it back but was jumping around aimlessly, basically, as he's freakishly tall), "because, honestly, Kate," and then, with a smirk aimed at me, he used mocking emphasis, "you could do better."

"You're being a jerk," she said.

"Now," he said, with a pout, "that's no way to talk about your first kiss, is it?"

"It is when he's being a jerk," she said, calmly, hands folded in her lap.

"Ew," I said, and Kate laughed at that, shaking her head

"'Ew'? Excuse you, it was a lovely kiss, though not meant to be. We're just of different philosophies, that's all," he said, winking at her, "isn't that right, Aragon?"

"We certainly are," she said, but didn't intervene-- put all her stuff back in her backpack, ditched me, actually, and walked into school!

Rude!

She did wish me good luck, though.

I suppose there's not much she could've done-- she's even shorter than I am.

"Give it. Back."

"Make me."

But before I could even think of a way to "make him", he shoved the rest of the éclair in his mouth.

I hate that he can look down at me. I hate, hate, hate it. I might need to check the academic planner to see if we're allowed to wear boots with heels.

"And now you have éclair on your face," I said, because he did-- chocolate and cream smeared next to the corner of his mouth, tugging into yet another smirk.

"Oh," he drawled, "I've had a Claire on my face before."

He didn't try to wipe any of it off, had his hands in the pockets of his slacks instead.

Everything about him radiated smugness in that moment, and I noted another flaw (though it didn't detract from attractiveness-- even more irritating): a dot of brown, on the bottom of one his green-blue eyes, framed by long lashes.

"Heterochromia". I learned about it last year. It's a genetic mutation, actually, to have eyes with more than one color.

So I could've called him a mutant, technically. But I'm not that mean. I settled for:

"You're vile."

"'Vile'? Oh, no, I assure you," he said, chuckling, "it's a thing of beauty, not vile at all…unless the giver lacks skill, that is. And I do not. So, I assume you've never experienced the pleasure?"

I felt my cheeks warm, because no, I have not…I've always been too shy to ask. And Harry's never offered, but I'm not a "Virgin Mary", either.

"That's really none of your concern."

"Thank God for that."

"Are you going to clean your face or not?"

"Mmm…not."

I fluttered my eyelashes, smiled, stood on tip-toes, and brushed the remainder of the éclair from the corner of his mouth with my thumb.

Mouth agape, he watched, unblinking, as I sucked the chocolate crumbs off.

"Don't. Steal. My. Fucking. Éclairs."

And that was the last thing I said to him today.

I'd like to say it's the last thing I'll say to him ever, but I have to go to this fucking school with him for the next year. So that's unlikely.

* * *

 

**Diary of Henry Tudor**

October 2, 2002, Wednesday, 5:11 PM

Anne Boleyn makes me. Want. To Set. Myself.

On FIRE.

That is all.

5:20 PM

Except what, what does my mom bring to the kitchen today, you ask?

OH.

"I picked these up from the new French bakery in town," she said, brightly, "there's croissants, éclairs--"

I choked on the glass of water I was drinking when she pushed the box towards me and spit it out all over the counter.

"Hal, are you alright--"

"NO. ÉCLAIRS!" I shouted, before leaving the room.

So now, on top of everything else, because of this nightmare of a girl, my mother probably thinks I'm insane.

Since I think this is the first time I have ever said no…to food…of any kind.

Can the Antichrist be female? Is that possible?

I'll have to ask my grandmother the next time I visit her at St. John's Home. She would know.


	2. like purple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You'd think such charming genetics would make him charming (I think people find him that way, actually, but I am certainly not amongst them), but it seems they skipped him. Although, the good looks didn't.
> 
> Most unfortunately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a lot of historic characters' names have been changed, so i'm posting the equivalent in the end notes for clarification.
> 
> quotes are from "song of solomon".
> 
> aim instant messaging was rather popular in 2002, so that's why i included it. 
> 
> "sircoeurloyal" is henry's user handle, and brandon's is "fightclubcharles". and "wcompton28" is will compton.

> **Diary of Henry Tudor**

October 3, 2002, Thursday, 10:01 AM

Study hall is an insult and a joke to those of us who actually study, so I refuse to partake.

Also, I don't have any tests for another week. And I've finished outlines for all my essays, so that's finito, more or less.

And I need to get this off my chest:

How the FUCK. Is she. Fucking. EVERYWHERE.

The Antichrist hadn’t even entered my peripheral vision until three days ago.

But I got her back, so I guess it's fine.

Here's what happened:

I get to school an hour early (as I usually do, but my friends think it's to study early…usually it's not. Usually it's to write, or draw) and go to the library.

Holbein is legit, honestly. He's the reason the library is open an hour before school does, I showed him some of my sketches and…anyway. He was impressed and I told him I'm not really comfortable drawing elsewhere, because people are nosy, and just like that he changed the hours.

Holbein, who was reading at the front desk (of course) nodded to me and I nod back, and walk past the bookshelves that lead to the bay windows that face the garden.

I heard a giggle, and am honestly hoping it's a ghost or something because this is my spot. In the mornings, anyway, it's a rather public and popular make-out space during school hours. No one comes here this early.

Apparently Anne Boleyn has decided she does.

Of course she has.

I didn't know it was her, at first: all I saw were cascading waves of dark hair, glinting gold and red in the sunlight that fell from the glass, sitting on the bay window, head bent, ~~long~~ legs crossed. A ~~pretty~~ smile, thumbnail held captive in the teeth of it as her eyes flitted across the page.

Then she looked up, and I thought, ~~for a fraction of a second, that it's interesting how the Antichrist looks pretty when she thinks no one's watching,~~  well, this is a shitty way to start my morning. 

"This is my spot. What are you doing here?"

"You own this spot?" she asked, gaze back on her book, eyebrows raised, "fascinating."

"What are you reading?"

"The Bible," she said primly, turning a page, "go away, Tudor."

"Why would the Bible make you blush?"

"It's warm in here."

"Oh, I see. Because I'm here."

"Mm-hmm," she murmured, distractedly, "exactly."

Well, that was no fun. Why fish at all if devil-fish is just going to ignore the bait?

Something about the way she held the page close to her, as if willing the words not to slide off the page, the intentness of her expression…and then whatever she read drew another giggle from her, another rise of color to the cheeks.

"You are clearly not reading the Bible," I said finally, "it's before 8 AM, no one's that devout, not even Aragon-- what do you have, hm? A bodice ripper hidden behind scripture?"

"As if-- hey!"

Boleyn tried to wrench the book back from my hands, so I stood in the bay window and tried to read it holding it above my head, throwing it back to squint at it, causing a crick in my neck as I did so.

_The Song of Solomon_.

"Give it back!"

"Leave and I will," I said, calmly, scarcely believing my eyes-- she hadn't been lying. There was no Harlequin novel hidden in the sacred pages; rather there's actually some rather smutty poetry in the Old Testament. A part they certainly don't teach you in Sunday school, and well, who could blame them?

"No," she said stubbornly, crossing her arms, "you don't own the library."

"You highlighted lines in the Bible?" I asked incredulously, marveling at the heavy-handed metaphors of the ones she did, "pretty sure that's blasphemy, Boleyn."

"Pretty sure God doesn't care given that there are a million or so copies-- the 'thou shalt not steal' bit, however…"

It's a part of the Bible, but one I've never heard a priest mention in a sermon, but then, it never mentions God, and it's one they wouldn't want to quote.

Of course, I share no such qualms:

"'Your lips distill nectar, my bride; honey and milk are under your tongue; the'-- what the fuck, 'the scent of your garments\--'"

"Shut up!"

What is it with this girl and putting her hand near or on my mouth? It's quite violating.

"No," I said, muffled, "all you have to do is--"

"Leave," she said, removing her hand and wiping it on her school jacket (as if it were my germs that were offensive, please), "but you know what? Go ahead," she said, shrugging, suddenly, she stepped down from the bay window and resumed her regular seat, unzipped her backpack and pulled out a textbook, and started to write, "I have everything I need anyway, so if you're so deprived that you need to read--"

"I'm not 'deprived'," I countered, not about to be left standing alone, I took a seat on the floor, far away from her (it's more comfortable to have your back against the bookshelf, anyways, and better for straight posture), "I'm curious."

"'Let my beloved come to his garden, and eat its choicest fruits…' well, well, well. I see you didn't highlight this bit. Any significance there?"

No reaction whatsoever, or, at least, not one I could see. She was writing something on a piece of paper, using her textbook as a hard surface, two envelopes to the left of it.

"What did you think was worth the pink ink…ah. 'Your head crowns you like Carmel, and your flowing locks are like purple,' why would this girl's hair be purple? That's stupid--"

"You're stupid."

"Oh, nice comeback, quite clever there. Touched a nerve, did I?"

"No," she said, voice tight, "you're just obviously not a very visual person if you can't see how hair could be purple, in certain lights."

"Tell me, was purple hair dye all the rage in the B.C. years? Did I miss that history lesson--"

"If it was very dark," she interrupted, absently twirling a lock of her own ~~very~~ dark hair, dreamy, languid expression suddenly cast over her face, (thank God no braids, today pinned back in waves and an indecipherable amount of bobby pins-- they blend in with brunette girls, due to the color) around her finger, "it might look purple, in certain lights and certain…observant, lovely people. Might have noticed it and mentioned it before."

"Some certain person in particular?"

"Maybe," Boleyn replied, haughty, jotting something else down on the page, "but that's none of your business."

"Boleyn. Are you writing a love letter to Nsync?"

"Yes," she said, with an eye roll, "clearly that's exactly what I'm doing."

"I can't help but feel that that was a little sarcastic."

"Well, help it."

"Who are you writing to?" I asked, trying to take a peek at her lap, but she covered the paper with her hand, and I deftly swiped one of the envelopes.

"That's really none of your concern."

"You're in my spot, so of course it's my concern. Tell me-- is he dreamy?"

"Look into his eyes and tell me yourself," she said, drily, chewing on the end of her pen (gross), "he's coming here to visit me soon, in the next week or so."

"'Harry Percy' is?"

"Yes-- wait, what?"

I held up the envelope in one hand.

"Princeton? Athletics scholarship, I assume," I quipped, letting her yank it from my hand (I had already gleaned all necessary information, including his letter-- "a king is held captive in the tresses", like, what kind of sadomasochistic overtones…but apparently she's replying with the first part to that passage…the purple hair bit…also it was rife with spelling mistakes, like, please, put a little effort in, if you can't, just send an email like every other schmuck, God…it's just irritating. Not on her behalf or anything, just like, objectively, in general…), "his IQ must be pretty dismal if he thinks dating you is a viable option."

"Academics scholarship. Try again," she snapped, putting her book and papers back in her bag.

"So he's poor?"

"That was clearly rhetorical--"

"If you ask me to try again, I'm gonna try again, I don't know what you expect--"

"He didn't need it; it was merit based. And it's partial."

"So he's greedy."

"I'm not doing this with you."

"Are you sure he's your boyfriend?"

"What?"

"I don't think anyone goes to college with a girlfriend. I don't think that happens. So you might want to make sure," I said, with a shrug-- I mean, it was rather sage advice. Free of charge. Generous of me, really.

"I don't need to 'make sure'," she snapped, "fuck off, Tudor."

"I don't believe I've earned this unladylike language. But to recap, he's not poor, he's not good at sports, he's greedy, and he's--"

"Far more attractive than you are," she said, adjusting the straps of her backpack and smiling brightly before standing back up.

"I seriously doubt that," I scoffed, because, please. Come off it.

Like…I know what I look like.

I'm me.

"I seriously believe you do," she replied (purred, almost-- the she-demon is strong in this one), patting me once on the cheek (and she literally had to tip-toe to do it-- she's tiny, like, midget-level, really), and then, smiling even wider, "but that doesn’t make it any less true."

Suddenly I'm blanking-- how did I get her back, again?

Oh, right. I stole her Bible.

And embarrassed her by reading--

Wait. Did I?

Come to think of it--

* * *

 

> **Diary of Anne Boleyn**

October 3, 2002, Thursday, 1:01 PM

I'm too advanced for Hampton Academy's Spanish class as well (according to the test), so at the moment I'm just a TA for art class, which is pretty low-key. Seems free-form, really, no direction at all.

It's my only class without Tudor, so it'll probably be my sanctuary for the year.

I think it's the students' sanctuary, too: there's a lot more fingernail painting going on than water color.

I have…something I'm going to have to return by the end of the day, and it's going to be a pain the ass to do it, but--

Oh well.

Doesn't matter.

After Library Incident, asked Kate about Henry Tudor. In, you know. The most casual way possible:

"So, like…what's Tudor's deal?"

"His 'deal'?" she asked, taking a careful bite of yogurt (she is the daintiest eater, it is like…insane).

Jenna Parker, Megan Sheldon, Andrea Hastings, Gemma Seymour, Cara Willoughby, and the rest of the cheerleaders (Kate is captain) were immersed in a Seventeen magazine quiz, so I felt enough privacy to ask the question.

"Well, in less polite terms: why is he such an ass?"

"Oh…I don't know that he is," Kate said, tilting her head to the side, she started to play with the straw of her cherry coke before finally drinking it and saying, "I don't know, I've known him a long time. And his family. He's not so bad."

"I guess you're biased. Sorry to ask."

"It's fine-- how am I biased?"

"Your first kiss?"

"Oh…yeah. I don’t carry a torch," she said with a wave of her hand, "or anything. We were maybe going to go out for a minute, but it ended on friendly terms."

"When does it ever?" I asked, leaning in, because…color me intrigued.

A 'thanks but not thanks' answer on either party never leads to anything but awkwardness, animosity, or a combination of the two-- in my experience, anyway.

"It did! He asked me out, I said yes, I'd love to, but that he should know…that I wasn't going to have sex until marriage. And that I was not flexible on that."

I wanted to ask "all sex?" Because, really? Is oral sex nothing if not the Catholic girl's loophole? But I didn't want to freak her out. She seems pretty conservative.

"And he said?"

"He laughed, for a good minute, kissed me on the forehead and said, 'Oh, Kate. We're going to be great friends.'"

"What a jerk!"

"No…I mean, at least he was honest! I prefer that, actually, to boys that say they're fine with it only to end up pressuring you later…I just don't bother anymore. Boys are arm candy decoration for formals only," she asserted, with some confidence, plopping a grape into her mouth, "and I'll reassess that stance after graduation."

"Arm candy decoration."

She's funny! I don't think she means to be.

But she's funny, anyway.

Except when she's pressuring me to try out for cheerleading.

That'd be a funny joke, except for the fact that she is 100% serious.

"What's his family like?" I asked. Mild curiosity, nothing more, and we were already on the topic anyway. No longer wished to discuss Henry Tudor; but had no problem discussing the rest of them.

"The Tudors? Mmmm…interesting. Whenever they're interviewed--"

"Interviewed?"

"Oh, yeah. They've done quite a few. Henry's dad is the CEO of this Internet startup that's really taken off. And Henry's mom, Elizabeth, used to be a television star, though it seems she's more or less retired, and her mother-- Elizabeth Woodville?"

"Elizabeth Woodville is Tudor's _grandmother_?" I asked,  really interested now. I have framed photos of her movies in my bedroom, I have since I was ten and first watched _the Rivers' Daughter_ …I've seen it probably like, fifteen times.

You'd think such charming genetics would make him charming (I think people find him that way, actually, but I am certainly not amongst them), but it seems they skipped him. Although, the good looks didn't.

Most unfortunately.

"But yeah, anyway his dad calls them a 'dynasty', which is…something, considering that he's new money, if anything. But Elizabeth is one of the 'Plantagenet princesses', and that's what most would call a dynasty. Really, really old money."

"Oh…what are they like in person, though?"

"Well…his dad is…hm. I don't know. I always feel…uneasy, around him."

That didn't sound good. So I leaned in and whispered, "what do you mean? Has he like…looked at you, or something?"

"Oh, God no! Nothing like that. No, it's more that he kind of…tries too hard. Like, he tries very, very hard to be charming. But it's not natural, so it just kind of makes you feel uncomfortable. Uneasy, like I said. The most charming people don't try to be, they just are. It's innate."

"And his mom?"

"Lovely. I don't think there's a person alive that doesn't adore her. Much like her oh-so-charming favorite," she quipped, and I followed her line of vision to Tudor, laughing at something Brandon whispered to him at the table next to the windows.

If he's her favorite, I don't think I'll like her as much as Kate claims everyone else does.

* * *

 

> **aim instant messenger, private chatroom**
> 
> **wcompton28 (6:17 PM):** did you do the civic exams notes?
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** lol no. did you?
> 
> **wcompton28:** lol. no. we're fucked.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** i think i highlighted…some things?
> 
> **wcompton28:** willoughby's hard 4 you, ask her 4 her notes.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** 'hard 4 me'? wtf is wrong with you?
> 
> **wcompton28:** 'wet 4 you' just sounds stupid.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** at least it's accurate. but yeah lmao, she is. good idea.
> 
> **wcompton28:** you know who doesn't seem to be hard 4 any1?
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** your mom.
> 
> **wcompton28:** fucking…she has menopause, man.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** it was a joke
> 
> **wcompton28:** wtf, man.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** i'm srry…2 far.
> 
> **wcompton28:** nah lol my mom hasn't had sex in like twenty years it's cool.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** compton…ur 18…
> 
> **wcompton28:** oh, yeah. lol. math.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** who's not hard 4 any1?
> 
> **wcompton28:** oh, RIGHT. boleyn.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** seems that way. speaking of ….ok so…tudor was way harsh today, no?
> 
> **wcompton28:** yeah! god, i'm surprised she didn't cry.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** she only asked if he had a minute to talk? like...he was so rude.
> 
> **wcompton28:** "no, i really don't." fucking brutal.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** but knivert can't say she has a flat chest without having the fear of god put in him?
> 
> **wcompton28:** seems unfair.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** majorly.
> 
> **wcompton28:** ah, shit, he's requesting to join. what button is decline?
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** you're such a n00b. alt + dlt
> 
> **wcompton28:** NO ITAS' SDNOIPAT
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** what does that mean??
> 
> **wcompton28:** SHIT FSFUKC
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** compton???!
> 
> **[wcompton28 has signed out of chat, 6:29:11 PM]**
> 
> **[sircoeurloyal is typing…]**
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** what's up?
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** wtf, brandon.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** ok like…to be fair…you weren't really supposed to see that…
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** he said it behind her back, i said it to her face. that's the difference between knivert and i.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** ok cool cool cool i think we're just all like… a little unclear on the rules?
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** the rules?
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** you were like, no one makes fun of boleyn but me and it's like ok…but what does that mean? exactly?
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** christ, do i have to spell everything out for you guys?
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** she's mine.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** 'yours' liiiike….?
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** use your words, brandon, not your ellipsis.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** like "no one else gets to tap dat" or…?
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** ew. no. i don't want to SLEEP with her.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** ok
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** like…i've had better. i'm sure she's nothing special.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** right so but. what is it that. you want.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** exactly?
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** idk. i just want like…dibs.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** on her?
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** this isn't a sex thing.
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** on her…misery, i suppose.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** that's…kind of fucked up, but ok.
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** however, you bring up a good point
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** i...do?
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** yes. none of you should sleep with  her. because she's evil, for one thing.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** is she?
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** and she certainly doesn't need the ego boost. i'm sure her head's big enough already from your little...study date request.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** oh, so i was just supposed to KNOW?
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** don't be ridiculous. had i known she was evil, i would've told you to steer clear. it's a deceptive facade, i don't blame you for falling prey to it.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** ...thanks
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** like, those ribbons she puts on her socks? that match the ones in her hair? genius. it makes you THINK she's just a package of girlishness, but no.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** no, she's a package of...evil?
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** exactly! you're catching on. it APPEARS all sugar and spice and everything nice but NO. it's just...poison wrapped in poetry.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** that's...awfully poetic of you. 
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** i'm a poetic person, what can i say?
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** and if you guys REALLY think i'm being harsh, you don't know the whole story. she antagonizes me just as much, if not more.
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** it's only fair.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** if you say so.
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** look. for barbs to work, they have to be well-placed. they have to be accurate.
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** she doesn't have a chest 'like a slab of granite down there'. that's just obviously not true, even from a clothed view.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** you remember that word for word, huh?
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** don't…whatever. MY slight was well placed. i know what i'm doing.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** so what bothered you was…the lack of accuracy?
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** yes, and it's just…like i said, she's mine. and i'm precise. and i can't have you all mucking it up by chiming in or whatever.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** chiming in on boleyn?
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** yes, exactly.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** o…kay. you sure you just weren't having a bad day?
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** i am, actually. i am having a bad day. i lost something that i'm trying to find.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** @ school? want me to help you look tomorrow?
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** no no no thanks but no, i lost it at home.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** this morning?
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** right, yeah, and i'm still looking for it so hopefully i find it by tomorrow.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** well, good luck.
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** but also, i stand by what i said: boleyn thinks she's superior. in intelligence, in everything. saying 'i really don't' to her 'do you have a minute?' knocks her down a peg.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** she does seem confident.
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** OVERconfident.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** hm…
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** what?
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** like someone else i could mention :)
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** you're not funny.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** I'M laughing.
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** whatever. oh, and teach compton how to use aim, please. shit's embarrassing.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** i'll do my best. oh, btw-- can we do a study group for civics?
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** you're not copying my notes.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** yeah, yeah, yeah, i know how you are.
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** but, yes, that should benefit you more than copying willoughby's. her notes have more doodles of hearts in the margins than actual words-- i've seen them.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** hmm…any initials in there, by chance?
> 
> **sircoeurloyal** : you are SO fucking transparent.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** that's the goal.
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** there's no 'mrs. charles brandon' cursive, if that's what you're asking.
> 
> **fightclubcharles** : that's clearly what i'm asking.
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** she did write 'C?' in sharpie on her girly magazine quiz: 'does he like you?' if that's helfpul.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** fr?
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** yes, brandon, For Real.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** good 2 know…
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** you're welcome. you know she's a freshman, though, right?
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** pssh. whatever. age is just a number.
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** and jail is just a room.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** why are you so determined to kill my joy?
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** she's 14. you're 18. the math's not hard. and i have younger sisters. i think of them.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** like i would date any of your sisters. get real.
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** you better not.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** omfg, i just said i wouldn't!
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** you better fucking not, brandon.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** i'm not!!!!
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** i'm like, so serious right now. you better not.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** christ, don't get your panties in a bunch.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** margot's kind of hot, tho.
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** brandon!!!
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** what?! she is. i have eyes. and she's a senior in UNI, so you don't get to be mad.
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** like she would…she goes the other way.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** she's a lesbian? awesome…
> 
> **sircouerloyal:** NO, dickhead. i meant she goes for older men, not younger.
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** and Scots. for some reason.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** well then, i'll make sure wear a kilt the next time she visits ;-)
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** well, make sure to cross your fucking legs.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** i will make sure to do the exact opposite.
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** christ. i have homework. i don't have time for your perversion rn.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** fine. so do i.
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** later, asshole.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** later, prince.
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** …WHAT did you just call me?
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** oh, yeah. totally stealing that from boleyn. genius shit, right there.
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** how did you know she called me that?
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** andrea hastings has a big mouth.
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** oh, trust. i know.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** thank you for THAT image…
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** you're welcome.
> 
> **fightclubcharles** : not EVERYONE is in love with you, you know.
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** …except that they are.
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** kisses, sweetheart.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** that's a little gay, tudor.
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** please. i know you still dream about that spin the bottle game…
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** christ, don't fucking remind me.
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** i don't need to remind you. i'm sure you think about it all the time…
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** hardly.
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** whatever you have to tell yourself. that was the best kiss of your life, and you know it.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** you're so full of yourself, honestly.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** still can't believe you FUCKING FRENCHED me, btw.
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** there's no need to shout. and it landed on you twice. those are the rules. i don't make the rules.
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** mwah.
> 
> **fightclubcharles:** good-fucking-BYE, tudor.
> 
> **sircoeurloyal:** good-fucking-bye, brandon.
> 
> **[sircoeurloyal has signed out of chat, 7:05:21 PM]**
> 
> **[fightclubcharles has signed out of chat, 7:05:34 PM]**
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Diary of Anne Boleyn**

October 3, 2002, Thursday, 7:06 PM

I hate him! So! Much!

I should just burn his stupid notebook, honestly! Why am I doing him any favors?

I hate and I hate and I hate him.

I hate Henry fucking Tudor and I'm just going to put his stupid notebook in my drawer until tomorrow so I don't have to fucking look at it anymore.

I do not want to know what goes on it that twisted mind of his, but looking at the cover of it makes me think about it.

Knowing, that is.

I don't want to know.

So, there. Book in, drawer shut.

I'm not going to think about it anymore. Or him.

I have Civics homework, and his douchebaggery is invading my brain space right now, and I need that brain space.

I'll give it to him tomorrow, and if he's a dick again I'm just going to throw the fucking thing at him.

Can't believe I tried to talk to him privately! Can't believe I was considerate enough to do that because I remembered that he hid the thing that first day I saw him when his friends appeared, and that he wouldn't even give me the time of day.

Ugh!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holbein = master holbein, the artist  
> jenna parker = lady jane parker, then rochford/boleyn  
> megan sheldon = madge sheldon  
> andrea hastings = anne hastings  
> gemma seymour = jane seymour  
> cara willoughby = catherine willoughby  
> kate (catalina) aragon = catherine of aragon  
> margot tudor = margaret tudor (who was older than henry, and is in this fic as well)


	3. lush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And I stood there, and thought about how his grandfather (Edward York, the Prime Minister, which I know as an Elizabeth Woodville fan) was said to bear a striking resemblance to Marlon Brando-- especially the mouth.
> 
> Brando had this…legendarily lush, Grecian statue kind of mouth. And so did York.
> 
> And his grandson inherited it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a reminder that henry's journal used to be a class assignment, so when the past entry is addressed to more, that's the reason why it is ~

 

> **To: Kate Aragon**
> 
> **From: Gemma Seymour**
> 
> **sms sent: 7:59 AM, october 4, 2002**
> 
> So what's the deal with H&A?
> 
> **To: Gemma**
> 
> Andrea?
> 
> **To: Kate**
> 
> No, Anne.
> 
> **To: Gemma**
> 
> Not this again…
> 
> **To: Kate**
> 
> Do they like each other or hate each other?
> 
> **To: Gemma**
> 
> Who knows.
> 
> **To: Kate**
> 
> K, pls.
> 
> **To: Gemma**
> 
> She did ask about him.
> 
> **To: Kate**
> 
> Rly??
> 
> **To: Gemma**
> 
> Could be nothing, tho.
> 
> **To: Kate**
> 
> I'm going 4 it. b4 she gets any ideas.
> 
> **To: Gemma**
> 
> Claws in! She has a bf.
> 
> **To: Kate**
> 
> In college! That'll last.
> 
> **To: Gemma**
> 
> You & H and ur on again off again…gives me whiplash
> 
> **To: Kate**
> 
> him too ;-)
> 
> **To: Gemma**
> 
> …please find God.

* * *

 

> **Diary of Anne Boleyn**

** October 4, 2002, Friday, 5:11 PM **

Well, today was…interesting.

Where to begin?

First, I saw Tudor standing at his locker with his friends before school had begun. I zeroed in on him, and slammed the open door of his locker behind him.

I tried being nice last time, so I figured a more aggressive approach would do the trick

Tudor(turns around, looking only very mildly amused): THAT was a bit much.

Me: YOU'RE a bit much.

That elicited a laugh from Brandon, at least, but the rest of his friends standing behind him, looked…uneasy, is how I could best describe it. As if they were slightly unsure of what to do.

Except for Norris, that is. Who winked at me, and blew me a kiss (why? Who knows. Not me).

Tudor: Listen--

Me: I need to talk to you.

Tudor pulled an apple out of the pocket of his letter-man jacket, then said, "Look, Boleyn, I don't know if you're a masochist or what, but if you REALLY need to hear it: no, I will not go out with you."

Excuse???? Me????

"Why would I ask you out? I have a boyfriend!"

"Are you sure you do, though?" he taunted, taking a bite of his apple, "because if I recall, I told you to make sure--"

"I have something of yours."

At this, the color and smugness slide right off his face.

Part of the reason I even bothered to try to give it back to him in the first place is…well, I can't imagine how terrifying it would be to lose mine (not that I'd be stupid enough to misplace mine, really, but…still).

"What?" he asked, lowly.

"Something…you lost?" I prompted, trying to keep my voice quiet (why? why was I still trying to not embarrass him? Probably because I remembered the boy through the window, and not this one, maybe they're different and maybe they're the same, though… ~~but he seemed different, then~~ ).

But I must not have succeeded, because Norris said, snickering, "What, his virginity?"

"No, Norris," Tudor snapped in return, an immediate response, "that's still with your mom."

To chorusing "ooooh's".

Of course.

Why are boys…the way that they are?

Anyway.

"Let's go," he said, and he started to speed-walk down the hall, without so much as a goodbye to his friends.

For secrecy, I suppose, but I struggled to keep up with him (he has LONG legs). He chucked the once-bitten apple into a trash can on his way down the hall, then held open the door to the auditorium.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Presently? Waiting for you to walk inside."

"Why?"

"Because," he said, an eye roll and dramatic sigh demonstrating his evident exasperation at this question, "I wasn't raised in the jungle."

"Well," I said, walking into the open doorway, "that's rather ethnocentric of you."

"If you want to be offended by everything," he said, walking in behind me, the door swinging shut "sure, whatever."

"It _is_ ethnocentric. Do you know what that means?"

"Yes, " he snapped, running a hand through his hair, "I know what that _fucking means_ ," here he swung his book bag off his shoulder (VERY dramatic, this one), let it fall on one of the red, plush seats gathered in front of the stage, "I'm not a fucking idiot, but why do you care? Were you raised in the jungle, Boleyn, hmm? Were you the Jane to someone's Tarzan?"

"Relax."

Because, at this point, he was standing pretty close to me. Too close. His eyes were intense, the blue like the hottest part of a flame, the inside part. The part that would burn the most, if you were to be dumb enough to touch it.

"So," he said, stepping back from me, "you have…?"

"Your diary."

"My journal," he corrected, hands in pockets.

I smiled at that, which he didn't seem to appreciate: "What are smiling at?"

"Oh," I said, in an affected voice, putting my chin in my hands, "it's just that the first page said, 'Diary of Henry Tudor.' In calligraphy. Very pretty."

"So you know, then," he said, softly, "hm?"

"I know…?" I asked, but he seemed to think I meant it as a threat rather than question to what he was talking about, and that's when he started to laugh. Loudly.

He bit his fist, shoulders shaking, laughter quieter, now.

"Okay," he said, finally, his tone strange, high-pitched, "what do you want, then?"

"What--"

"Money?" he asked, nodding to himself, he bent down at the seat where he put his bag and started rummaging around it, "I have--"

"No, I don't want money--"

"No?" he asked, continuing to rummage around it, he opened the top flap of it (it was a supple material, like what moccasins are made of embellished with pockets of brown leather), pouring the contents out of over carpeted floor, he began to look through those, too, "what, you're not even bothering with blackmail, is that it?" he asked, voice tight, high, before clearing his throat, "that's…great."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, "but--"

I had slid my backpack off my shoulders at this point, was just about to unzip it when he was there, towering over me, face flushed.

I didn't even think to be scared, really. Because he was the one that looked scared.

But he leaned down, and whispered, close to my ear.

"Don't play dumb. Doesn't suit you."

"Don't whisper in my ear," I said, loudly, "I don't want you that close to me."

He withdrew, and put his hands up, the 'don't shoot' gesture, backing away again.

"So that's it, huh?" he said, voice breaking, "you know everything, and you're going to tell everyone, right? Because you hate me."

"What? No--"

"I'm sure you Xeroxed your little heart out at last night-- that's what I would have done. So, fine. Tell everyone. Tell them everything, about the pills, about my dad, about--"

He was panicking, I guess. He had started to speak at a rapid-fire pace at "you know everything", so I put a finger to his lips, the shush gesture, so that he would stop talking, and he did, gaze flicked down to my hand, then to me, in shock.

"I'm going to stop you, before you tell me something you don't want me to know: I didn't read it."

"You…"

I stepped away.

"You didn't?"

"No."

And then it was quiet, and all I could hear was his heavy breathing, the short gasps that subsided, finally, him, rubbing his brow with one hand, … and that was uncomfortable.

Everything felt… heavy, so I tried to lighten it. Get it back to the levity and teasing and barbs of the last few days, because that was comfortable, strangely enough, felt natural and this…didn't.

"Don't flatter yourself," I said, coolly, "like…you think I want to learn about the inner workings of that dark, twisted mind of yours? Thanks," I continued, pulling the diary (thick, absolutely, covered in a beautiful, red and gold leather, the pages dusted in a gold color on the opposite side of the spine, one of those fancy ribbons that are in classics marked a page towards the end…the last place he left off, I assume), "but no thanks. I have better things to do with my time."

He took it from me from my proffered gesture with a nod. Didn't say thank you, but I wasn't expecting him to.

"You didn't read it?"

"No," I said, again, glanced down at the candy wrappers, notebooks and pencils strewn across the carpet, still left from his bag, "we should get to class, shouldn't--"

" _Why_?"

"Why _would_ I?"

"Because I've been an asshole to you."

"Yeah, I've noticed. But it's…kind of like a code. Among…"

And this was stupid. I'm not really sure why I did it. Let him know, I mean.

But, whatever the reason, I took out the notebook I'm writing in right now out of my backpack.

"Journal writers. You don't read someone else's journal. It's a shitty thing to do, and…you just don't. Even if the writer's an asshole. Even if you don't think they'd extend you the same courtesy," I explained, putting it back in between my binder and book for English and zipping my bag up, securely, "were the roles reversed."

I made my way towards the door.

"Boleyn?"

Thank you, maybe?

"Yeah?"

"Don’t call me dumb," he said, as he knelt on the floor and put the clutter back into his bag, "alright?"

"Why shouldn't--"

"You can call me," he continued, throwing a handful of pennies to the side with an expression of distaste (not worth the effort of putting back in his bag, evidently), "literally anything else-- I give you full leave. Seriously, do your worst. God knows I do. But not that."

"And does the same go for me?"

"No."

"That doesn't seem fair--"

"It is. Because no one's ever told you that you are," he said, putting the diary in an inside pocket (safer, maybe) of his bag and zipping it, "or even so much as implied it. Have they?"

"I--"

"Ethnocentrism," he said, in a clear, crisp tone (no more teary eyes, no more flushed face, he seemed to have composed himself in moments, so much so that I wondered if I had made up the previous panic I witnessed), "is the belief that one's own ethnic group or culture or, in some cases, nationality, is superior to anyone else's. The United States can probably be found to be the most guilty of this, in current context as well as historic, but an argument can easily be made for the rest of the Western world, as well. It's a fairly new word-- it was introduced last century, but its origin is considered Greek-- _ethnos_ , for people. Centrism, from the French _centriste_. So I remember it as: people, thinking they're the center of the universe."

By the time he was finished with that, he had gathered all his things into his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and then made his way to where I was at the door.

"I'm. Not. Stupid. And I know what ethnocentric means. Okay?"

"O…kay?"

"Great," he said, a soft smile gracing his lips, "I'm glad we have an understanding."

And then he did.

The weirdest. Fucking. Thing.

He cupped my cheek in his hand, leaned down and kissed my forehead.

Like…what kind of game is that?

And left when the warning bell rang.

And I stood there, and thought about how his grandfather (Edward York, the former Prime Minister, which I know as an Elizabeth Woodville fan) was said to bear a striking resemblance to Marlon Brando-- especially the mouth.

Brando had this…legendarily lush, Grecian statue kind of mouth. And so did York.

And his grandson inherited it.

And when it rests against your skin, it feels like pillows. ~~Heavenly~~. ~~So I can't imagine what it would feel like against your mouth.~~

** 9:05 PM **

Dad isn't taking over history class for another few days. But I know I'm enrolled in the one where the teacher's retiring and leaving soon, so…that'll be interesting.

Also: Tudor and I may have gotten into an argument in our Lit class? Cromwell did not take too kindly to it, and punished us by pairing us up for a presentation due Monday.

"College professors give assignments over the weekend quite frequently," was his answer to the class' groans, "welcome to the real world."

So…guess whose house I'm going to tomorrow?

Kill me.

* * *

 

> **Diary of Henry Tudor**

**October 4, 2002, Friday 9:35 PM**

I think I'm putting this one to bed and starting a new one. There's just…too much in here. I didn't realize how much, until I lost it (and I still don’t know how I did…I've gone through my bag like ten times, there aren't any holes anywhere, so I haven't clue one how it slipped out and I remember putting it in my bag as soon as Brandon sat next to me).

And I should probably take out the part about the…Valois thing. Shred it, burn it or something. I'm not ashamed of it, but my dad's nosy and paranoid and I don't think he'll find it if I hide it but…I don’t want to take any chances. He still doesn’t know about everything that happened there (thank God and my mother) but he knows about pretty much everything else.

So I think I'll read it, again, one last time before I do.

 

> * * *
> 
> **Diary of Henry Tudor**

**April 3rd, 2002, Wednesday**

Hi, More. If you're a liar and reading this, you're about to be scandalized, let me tell you a thing.

And I'm not going to give any context, because fuck context.

So, here we go. The assignment: a conversation you overheard that you remember.

Weird and specific, but okay. Here's mine.

A few years ago, I'm at home (after a very long flight from Wales) and I hear my parents talking in my dad's study from the hallway.

It goes something like this:

 **Mom:** I don't care if that's what he is. It's actually--

 **Dad:** You  do care if he is, Liz, don't lie to yourself… you're as Catholic as I am!

 **Mom:** I'm a lot of things, Henry. And it's actually pretty irrelevant to me. All I want to talk about with him, with you, is that he's too young to be having sex with anyone--

 **Dad:** Sex??!

 **Mom:** [backtracking] Well, I…it was just kissing, like I said, but I don't know, they were alone, it's conceivable that it could've potentially led--

 **Dad:** Christ!

 **Mom:** [smoothly] I just want to have all our bases covered. And I want to tell him he's too young to be having sex with anyone, because he is, and I'm not even interested in bringing up gender. Because it's. Irrelevant. To. Me.

This was when I realized that a] she must've been the one that picked up the phone when the headmaster called and b] she must have relayed the news to HIM and…edited some details out. To protect me, presumably. From him.

Because it was definitely not just kissing.

Kissing, yes, but not just.

 **Dad:** Liz!

 **Mom:** Henry? You're not going to speak to him alone about this.

 **Dad:** Excuse me??

 **Mom:** Did. I. Stutter?

Like, legit my Mom can be scary sometimes. Legit. But he ended up ignoring her anyway, and I'll clarify on that later (maybe).

 **Dad:** No, but why--

 **Mom:** If you're talking to him about this, I'm there. You're not doing it alone.

 **Dad:** Why not?

 **Mom:** Because I don't trust you.

 **Dad:** [shouting] well, that's what every man wants to hear from his wife, isn't it?

Anyways. I GUESS I'll give context (and I hope you're not reading this part and jacking off or something, you sick fuck…I don't know how much of pop culture is wish fulfillment, how realistic the whole American Beauty thing is-- and by that I mean the most blatantly homophobic of men-- read: you, giving your unsolicited opinions on Praying the Gay Away during LIT CLASS, of all things, which legally you are allowed to do because this is a private not public school and a Catholic one at that but like…really. No one asked. Chill ((but yeah, the most homophobic men having latent homosexual desires, was what I was gOING to say, but I got sidetracked)):

Freshman year I went to this all boys' boarding school in Wales. Real charming, damp and cold, and we were housed in this actual renovated castle. "Where young men become princes of the world", was the missions statement, or some ridiculous fairy tale orgasm shit like that.

Arthur, my brother, had gone there and hated it, said the workload was killer, and he's extremely serious and studious, so I did not have high hopes.

I had two roommates: John Asturias, this Spanish guy, and this French guy, Francis Valois.

Asturias and I were fine, got along etc., but Valois and I. Oh fucking MAN. We did NOT.

We were fiercely competitive, in sports, mainly, and he always beat me at wrestling. God, I remember I HATED that. We had gotten into scuffles before, too, and usually one of our friends would break it up, or a teacher would.

But we had sort of kind of managed to fall into some sort of antagonistic, friendly coexistence at that point.

Sort of.

Anyways. Asturias was gone for the week, vacationing with family, I believe, so it was just Valois and I.

It was late at night, past lights-out (like…you're going to give us a college level course load and amount of reading and then tell us we have to go to bed by 11 PM? Fuck you! If I finished all my homework by 1:00 AM I considered myself lucky), but both of our bedside lamps turned on, and we were both studying, wearing t-shirts and sweatpants: he was sitting on his bed and so was I, on the other side of it, back against the wall (better for your back) because we were quizzing each other when suddenly he asked, pretty abruptly:

"So…who do you think is the hottest guy here?"

"Um…" I said, closing my book, "isn't that, like…a little gay?"

"Well, I'd have us rank the hottest girls," he said, adjusting his pillows against the frame, "but, y'know…there are none here. And I'm bored."

That sounded legitimate, and I always like ranking people, anyway, so I pondered this and said, "Hmm…me! Definitely me."

Valois laughed, shaking his head, and went back to his flash cards.

"What?" I asked, pushing his leg with my foot, "you disagree?"

And then he looked up, green eyes…soft, strangely, I don't know, I thought it was the light or something and said, voice equally soft, "No, not at all."

Clearly he was joking. Clearly.

I waited for him to say some joke, as he usually did. Say, "No, it's not you, it's me," or "You're so fuckin' full of yourself, Tudor, Jesus" (one of his favorites), but, no…he just kept looking at me.

And I did not know how to deal with that.

So I did what I usually did when I did not know how to deal with Valois (though, granted, I had never not known in quite…this way before): I hit my hand against where his shoulder met his chest, pushing him effectively and said, "Whatever, Valois, stop fucking with me."

"Don't push me!" he snapped back, responding in kind.

"No, you don't push me!" I said, pushing him back and then.

Then it turned into wrestling, and as he always fucking managed to do in gym, he had me on my back.

Though usually it was on a mat, and this time it was on his bed.

Which I did not think particularly significant (at the time).

And see this is the point at which…someone would usually break us up, like I said. Asturias, or a mutual friend, or a teacher.

But no one was there.

It was just us.

"Tudor," he said, face inches from mine, lowly, "do you ever fucking shut up?"

I noticed that he had thick, long lashes, dark, and thick eyebrows, and this close I could see that the hairs went beyond his brow line.

"No, you know, I really--"

"I really don't" is what I was planning on saying, but he interrupted my words with his mouth.

On my mouth.

It was…hm. I don't know. Different from kissing girls, which I had before. Not better, really, and not worse. Just. Different.

* * *

**Diary of Henry Tudor**

**October 4, 2002, Friday 10:01 PM**

I'm actually fucking exhausted so I'm going to finish reading that later before I trash it.

Maybe tomorrow morning.

Then I get to pick Boleyn up.

Joy of joys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> henry is bi~ goodybe~ thank you and good night~


	4. intricate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Your other siblings have adapted well enough to boarding schools," he said, pulling out a notepad, "but I think…given this…incident, that they're probably not the best environment for you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm supposed to be studying but this fic wouldn't leave me alone. oops.
> 
> on that note, credit to Economics of Public Issues textbook for the Econ quotes, some paraphrased and some direct.
> 
> and this is more backstory, because...idk. that's just what happened. 
> 
> the bi wanted to be written, and so it was~ 
> 
> homophobia/biphobia tw as well. no slurs but they're implied

>   **Diary of Henry Tudor**

**April 3, 2002, Wednesday**

**9:00 PM**

I had to finish Trig homework before I finished this recount.

Also, Mom ever-so-subtly slid a veritable cornucopia of pamphlets under my door with a post-it note to "peruse at your leisure", so I flipped through those for entertainment's sake.

Her sister Cecily is a nurse, so I think she procures them from her. It was the usual pamphlets. Some for my…stuff, one on "stress management for teens"(I could write a pamphlet for that: train for games and then study until you feel like you're dying. This guarantees collapse, and thus deep, interrupted sleep, if only for a few blissful hours ((on weekdays, that is-- you have to catch up on sleep on weekends, or you're burning both ends of the candle and it ends in sunglasses indoors during daylight hours, and you grabbing ~~Brandon's~~ your friend's face and saying "If you don't stop smacking your gum, you will not live to see the end of 2nd period. I swear to GOD. You will not live."))  But then, I have to do that, more than anyone else, to counteract the meds' side effects. By that, I mean bring myself to the edge of utter exhaustion to be able to sleep at all.) Then (of course!) STD and contraceptive information (because guess who doesn't know how to keep her goddamn mouth shut? Margot Tudor, that's who).

My father, of course, had an entirely different reaction anytime Margot tattled about me hooking up with a girl. He smiles, or pats me on the back (ew), much to her chagrin. 

Father of the Year award, clearly. 

I don't think most dads do that. But there's a very specific reason why he does, and it's because, to him, it's reassuring (more on that later).

So, anyways, back to that fateful day in Wales: Valois and I are making out or whatever (I don't know if you'd call it that, really, or more just battle for dominance and hands everywhere-- lots of squeezing hip bones, lots of legs tangling together, biting of each other's mouths and the tugging of hair), and he pulls away and is glaring at me, as if I made him do that or something.

I smirked in response to this, and asked, smugly, of course: "So…how long have you been IN LOVE with me?"

" _Psssh_. Please," he scoffed, running a hand through his hair, "I'm not _in love_ with you, Tudor, Christ. Come off it."

"No," I reassured, patting him on the knee as I leaned back against the wall, "it's okay, really. It's fine. I understand. People fall in love with me all the time. I mean," I continued, gesturing to just, you know, the entirety of myself, as he continued to glare, "it's not like I can blame anyone for doing so…"

"I'm not in love with you," he repeated (someone doth protest too much, I thought), face flushed, "you're so conceited. I'm just…bored," he said, with a shrug.

"Okay, whatever you say. You're the one that kissed me, friend," I said, grabbing his flashcards off the bedspread (in quite a disarray after we were…you know. Moving over them and such) and putting them back in a pile, "but, you tell yourself whatever you need to, if it helps you--"

"Have you ever gotten head?"

Well, if he was trying to shut me up again, that certainly did the trick.

"Um…"

I read the card in front of me, stalling:

>   **trade off (in relation to opportunity cost)**

"What," I asked, "you mean, like…oral?"

I flipped the card over.

>   **to receive a desired economic good, it is necessary to 'trade-off' (give up) another desired economic good in a situation of scarcity**

"No," he said, rolling his eyes, and then his neck, which made a cracking sound…as if this was a ridiculous question and deserved a scathing answer. 

> **\--(scarcity = value. resources are limited even though wants are limitless; nature does not freely provide as much of everything as people want)**

"No?" I asked, looking up at him, now, and he laughed, pushed my shoulder, and said, "I'm fucking with you. Of course I mean oral."

_Of course I mean oral_ , he said. "Of course". 

Not a sentence I expected to hear from him within this context, but…there it was.

I shuffled the cards, attempted to alphabetize, put "opportunity cost" before "trade-off", and asked him a question, as if we were still studying and this brief interlude had not occurred, ignoring his:

"What's opportunity cost, Valois?" I asked, showing him the front of the card, flipped over my mouth.

"The highest-valued alternative that must be sacrificed to attain something or to satisfy a want. Have you?"

I flipped the card over. He was right, of course.

_Of course I mean oral_. Of  course. For some reason that particular phrasing wouldn't stop flipping through my mind, mirroring the flipping feeling I had in my stomach.

> _Of course I mean oral_ \+ **wants are limitless** = the sound of my brain exploding.

"No…I have not."

"Do you want to?"

> **Wants are limitless** \+ **satisfy a want** \+ _do you **want** to?_ \+ _of course I mean oral_ = ????!?!??!?!?

"Ummm….from...you?"

He leaned forward, made to look under his bed, even went so far as to crouch under it, flip the bedspread over. Then he walked over to mine and did the same thing, got up, crossed his arms. Scanned the room. Paced around it, then sauntered back to his bed, where I was still sitting, wondering what in the ever loving fuck he was doing.

Grasped the edge of it, kneeled down, put his elbows on it, and rested his chin in a single hand.

"Do you see anyone else here?"

Well, fuck.

A TAD dramatic, but. It got the point across.

I pursed my lips, stared at the ceiling. Weighed the "trade-off", if you will, the positives versus the negatives of this possible scenario (so, in that way, I was studying for Econ, after all).

Could not see any negatives, really.

"Sure," I said, with a heavy sigh, shrugging my shoulders, "I guess."

As if I was the one doing him a favor, which I figured would make him mad.

It did not.

I mean, if his reaction and enthusiasm in the act were any indication, he was actually…the opposite of mad.

Anyways. I wouldn't say it was the best head of my life, or anything, because I've had some since (to say the least), but…it's definitely up there to this day, still. Probably in the top five, or ten, maybe.

BUT there was a negative I hadn't considered.

I hadn't considered Murphy's Law.

Which is, that when your roommate that you loathe/admire is giving you your first ever blow job, that is, of course ("of course I mean oral" = of course we'll get caught, of course the nights where we're being absolute angels and studying till the wee hours are the nights no one comes by) going to be the night on which staff does the random lights-off check (and does NOT find the lights off, and also finds…other things happening).

I mean, I don't think it's QUITE that, verbatim. But I'm applying that principle to it.

So, that happened.

And then me, flying back home, happened.

And then me, overhearing my parents arguing that night, happened.

And then my dad, waking me up at 3 AM and being all "I need to talk you, please meet me in my study as soon as you're able," happened, on the same night.

"I thought Mom told you not to talk to me alone," was what I could have said, if I felt like being a sarcastic asshole (and I usually am). But I knew he was upset and I just wanted to get whatever it was he wanted to say over with so I could go the fuck back to SLEEP.

So, I threw on a robe and slippers, brushed my teeth again (dental hygiene is very important, especially if you're vain, and I am), and walked down the hall to his study. Which he reserves for Discussions.

So I knew this was going to be one.

I thought I was prepared, but I wasn't.

He sat behind his desk, hands folded in the prayer position, resting just under his chin, scruffy with five-o-clock shadow. Extended a hand, gestured to the empty armchair in front of the desk.

I sat.

He continued to sit.

And that was all. For like, a good…I don't know. Longest ten minutes of my life, though, probably.

Some weird, psychological strategy, I think? He expected me to squirm or wanted to see what I would say first, maybe, but shit did not work. Instead of making me nervous, I just felt myself on the verge of falling asleep, when, finally, he said:

"So, what happened?"

"What happened with what, Dad?" I asked, beaming with joy (joy at knowing I had made him have to say it, when I knew he didn't want to).

He leveled me with the Tudor glare-- apparently it's the one, if you believe legend, that made Bill Gates cry during some tech conference. His eyes are grey, or more grey than blue I suppose, so it's quite...steely (the eye colors of my siblings and I are like some sort of hopscotch game-- my mother's are blue, Margot's and Mary Rose's are grey, Arthur's are blue...etc.).

It didn't make me cry, though. I'm a Tudor, too. The glare doesn't work on me. It bounces right off of me. I don't think he knows how it works, because he always seems to think it will, and it doesn't.

"With the…boy," he asked, clearing his throat, he lifted a mug of something steaming (tea, perhaps, or coffee if he was in for a late night, which he sometimes drinks every other hour…it makes him just edgy enough to finish projects but too edgy to tolerate any outside distraction), "what happened with the boy?"

"Whatever Mom told you happened," I said, smoothly, watched his brow knit together at this response, "why are you asking me?"

"I'd like to hear it from you."

"Why?"

A dramatic sigh heaved his shoulders upwards, then down, like a wave crashing, and he rubbed his right temple.

"Why?" was my favorite question when I was younger. Mom would answer patiently, or temple her hands together, place them upon her lips, and say, "let me find you the answer", take my hand, and lead me to our library. The book we found depended on the question. Sometimes the answer was found in the Encyclopedia Britannica, but my favorite answers came from _the Odyssey_ , _the Iliad_ , and _Le Morte D'Arthur,_ and the works of Erasmus _._

My Dad would answer, "because, that's why". And if I was repetitive enough in the asking, he would leave the room and send a nanny in his stead.

"I'm concerned," he said, carefully, rolling his paperweight over his desk (glass against wood, it made a tapping sound, like a metronome, a staccato beat to his syllables, a tightness to the end of each consonant: "I'm. _Con_.. _cern_.. _ed_. ) "that there are some things you don't…understand. About men. And I need to know what happened, to know how…concerned I should be."

It was about as clarifying as no answer at all.

What happened?

"Well, gee, I don't know, we were studying and then he asked me who I thought the hottest guy at our school was and I said me and he agreed and I guess he REALLY agreed because that led to making out and that led to me getting head for the first time."

Fuck. Can you imagine?

I didn't say that, of course.

I'm not an idiot.

"I don't know," I said with a yawn, "he made fun of me and I pushed him and then he kissed me, I guess--"

"He kissed you?"

Except he said the word 'kissed' like its actual meaning was 'murdered'.

"Ummmmm….yes?"

"Did he…force you?" he asked, lowly, wringing his hands together.

"What? No--"

"Threaten you, coerce you," he muttered, leaning over his desk and yanking his phone towards him, "because if that's what happened, I'm calling the school, I'm calling them right now and--"

"Dad, stop," I snapped, irritable and tired and edgy at this point, I yanked the phone from his hand and slammed it back down on the receiver, to his utter shock, "no, he didn't, it wasn't like that, just STOP."

And then he sighed, leaned back in his chair, which made a squeaking noise, pushed his head against the head rest.

And then I was actually, legitimately, for the first time in this conversation…sad. Sad because I realized he would actually prefer it if that was what had happened with Valois…that it would make more sense to him. That it would be something he could 'Handle'.

"So, what then?" he asked, twisting his wedding ring around his finger, "I don't understand…you've had girlfriends."

"Yeah…and?"

"So…what?" he asked, again, "Your skirt chasing was a cover? You weren't attracted to--"

"I was attracted," I said, rolling my eyes, really getting annoyed now, "what is your point, can you just say whatever it is you're clearly DYING to say so I can go back to bed or--"

"Are you…gay?"

Except he didn't say 'gay'.

I don't know. It's a fairly hateful word. I don't want to write it down.

"No, I'm not--"

"You're very young," he said, "so…"

Fifteen, but sure…okay.

"So I wouldn't blame you for not knowing this…I don't. I don't want you to think that, Henry. But here's the thing," he said, clearing his throat, fidgeting with the papers on his desk, decidedly avoiding eye contact with this conversation, "if you're a man, and you have sex with a man…you're gay. There's no going back. It doesn't matter how many women you have sex with afterwards. That's it."

Well, then I was confused. Because here's the thing: there were several things drifting through my mind during the…experience. And I hadn't really particularly tried to get my thoughts to drift anywhere, they just came and went as they did.

I thought of girls, sure, but I also thought of how nice it felt to run my hands through my roommate's hair. How hot it was to see him on his knees for me; this person who had defeated me so many times in the arena of athletics.

I shrugged, said, "Well, I've heard some people like both--"

"Men aren't like that. You're gay or you're not."

"Whatever," I muttered, real tired of him saying the word-that-was-not-actually gay, picking at a thread on the sleeve of my robe, "can I go now, or…?"

"You didn't like it. Right?"

"I…you know what? I did," I said, and his eyes narrowed, "I did like it, actually."

I felt triumphant at this.

And also, the only thing in my head at this point was: _fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you FUCK you, honestly, let me go to bed, fuck you._

And _he_ thought I was only talking about kissing. HA!

"You're not gay," he said, shaking his head, "you're not. I won't have you embarrass me."

_Fuck you fuck you fuck you fucking fuck you--_

"If you like girls, you didn't like it. I need to hear you say it."

"Fi _ne_ ," I snapped, giving the word two syllables (Fine-nuh), "I didn't like it."

"Good," he said, with a nod, "now…about your schooling."

Oh my GOD.

"Your other siblings have adapted well enough to boarding schools," he said, pulling out a notepad, "but I think…given this… _incident_ , that they're probably not the best environment for you."

"Fine," I said. Honestly, it sucked only being able to see Mom on holidays and summers. I missed her every day. And I missed our staff-- Eric, our landscaper, Marlene/Mrs. Salisbury, the tutor/nanny, still there because Kate, Liz, and Mary Rose were too young for boarding school just yet.

Suffice it to say I didn't miss my father much.  

"And co-ed," he said, writing something on his notepad, squinting at it, talking more to himself for sure, "co-ed, I think…you need that."

"Fine by _me_."

_**More** people to kiss. Merry fucking Christmas to me! Fuck you fuck you fuck you--_

"Private, of course…"

" _Okay_ ," I said, getting up from my chair, "I'm going to bed now."

"Yes, fine," he mumbled, waving a hand in dismissal, grey gaze still fixed on the lined page, "let's see, there's…Eltham, Hampton…Westminster…"

So. According to my father's logic, because I let Francis Valois go down on me, I'm G-A-Y, capitalized and exclaimed.

But, given the hard-on I tend to get when I unclasp a bra of lift a skirt…I'd have to conclude that he's wrong.

The two are not mutually exclusive.

And whoever I deem hot enough can blow me to that.

Anyways.

I haven't kissed a guy since, besides Brandon. But that was for a party game, and so I'm not sure it's of the same rank as say, recreational kissing.

The beginning of Brandon and I's ('homoerotic', according to Margot, much to my father's clenched-jaw chagrin) friendship started off like this:

"Who the fuck are you?"

I looked over to the questioner from where I was trying out the given combination for my locker, the paper that had the code held flat against the other one as I read it and spun it, once, to the right.

I paused in the unlocking process, and gave a cool, disinterested once-over (top of his dark hair, down to the black and white saddle oxfords on his feet) to what was probably the most handsome person I've ever seen outside of television screens (and my own reflection, of course).

Like, honestly, _what fourteen/fifteen-year-old has cheekbones like that_ , I remember wondering, _did he entirely skip the baby face phase and just skip straight of chiseled or **what**?_ I noted that he was tall (not as tall as me, but then, pretty much no one is, or was, but close).

His lashes were long, thick, dark, too, graced upon two cool blues like a goddamn Renaissance painting or something. And girls have a thing for long lashes. No one knows why. But it's like…a thing.

Which meant, of course, that he would either be my biggest rival or my best friend. And that this interaction would be the determining factor on that toss of the coin.

"Someone important," I answered, dismissively, turning back to spin the lock to the left, "who the fuck are you?"

"What are you," he scoffed, "an asshole?"

"What are you," I mimicked, "a Calvin Klein ad?"

"I…"

I turned the lock to the right, the third number, until it gave a final click, and pulled it open only to have him shut it again.

"Excuse me, what do you think you're--"

"How do you know about that?" he whispered, arm leaning against the row of lockers, cheeks a dusky red, he nodded to some people in passing in pretended nonchalance.

Oh. My. GOD.

"It was a joke," I said, mildly, thoroughly enjoying this turn of events, and the way the color drained from his face soon thereafter, "so I didn't, but…now I do."

"Listen," he said, clearly backtracking, his tone going down several notches, from self-assuredness to panic and forced apologetic desperation, "look, I didn't mean anything by--"

"I don't see why you'd consider it embarrassing," I said, starting to spin the lock again, fairly certain this time he wouldn’t interrupt the process, "being chosen for something like that means you're attractive…unless…was it like, for underwear or something?"

"No," was his quick retort, "it was jeans but it was…one was shirtless, I don't--"

"Oh my God," I said, laughing, "Jesus, did you have to do, like…" I squished my lips together with my thumb and forefinger, "the pouty mouth thing, too, or--"

"Shut up!" he hissed, blushing again (and there was my answer to that question).

Girls wouldn't have a problem with it, of course, but guys would be merciless. This I knew about as well as he did, as I deduced from his worry. Things like that get Sharpie drawings of dicks all over them, because…well, because guys are disgusting, honestly, for the most part.

Later, Brandon would tell me that he had been scouted at the mall. That he wasn't going to do it, but due to budget cuts in the school, his full scholarship had been reduced to a partial one, so he went for it and made up the rest of tuition with his brief summer modeling career.

"Just tell me the blonde's name," I said, nodding at the group of girls clustered at the row of lockers across the hall, "and consider your secret safe with me."

"Which--"

"Curls. Blue eyes."

"Gemma Seymour. But I wouldn't--"

"Sure," I said, laughing, chucking him under the chin, "sure, okay," then made my way over to the group.

"Hi, Gemma."

She turned her head towards me, curls spinning over her shoulder as she did, crooked a single eyebrow and replied, "How did you know my--"

"Nice outfit."

Her friends giggled as she said, slowly, as if speaking to a very ignorant individual, as if I had somehow missed the matching plaid skirts and jackets, "It's a uniform."

I felt rather than heard Calvin Klein wince behind my shoulder, but continued, unfazed:

"Oh, I know. But you wear it so well."

That certainly changed her countenance, but then, I had been expecting it to. The mood-ringed hand that had been fiddling with the crucifix of her necklace with vague annoyance before suddenly stilled, lay flat against her heart. She inhaled, sharply, almost a gasp, but more subtle, then tucked a lock of golden hair behind a dainty, slightly pointed ear (last year, we were Arwen and Aragorn for Halloween, though she refused to wear a wig to match Liv Tyler's from the movie…she kind of has a thing about her hair, I discovered. But, she did at least fit the book description of fair-skinned), the tip of which was turning pink.

"I…thank you?" she asked, eyelashes fluttering, as if dazed.

"You're welcome. Take care," I said, and watched, with amusement, as her glossed mouth parted, slightly, at that brusque yet blasé exiting line, color rising to her lightly freckled cheeks.

" _Byyyee_ , Brandon," trilled her friends as I walked back to the locker (and he followed).

I pulled the magnetic mirror from my book bag and set it against the inside door, when:

"She doesn't date anyone, you're barking up the wrong--"

"Sure she doesn't," I said, throwing him a 'please' look, depositing the rest of my books and notebooks in by schedule order: Advanced Geometry, World History, and Bio for alternating Mondays and Wednesdays, Honors English,  Health, and French I for alternating Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays.

"What was that?" Brandon asked, crossing his arms, "I mean, how did you--"

"That was intricate," I answered, "There were a lot of things going on there. And I don't really know if I have time to explain, really--"

He plucked the paper with my locker combo and schedule on it, nearly falling out of my jacket, and scanned it, said, "You have Study Hall next. So do I. It's a joke. We have time."

Actually, I think I still have the notes we passed on my first day at Hampton somewhere…let me see if I can find…

Ah, here they are...

> * * *
> 
>   **Diary of Anne Boleyn**

**October 5, 2002, Saturday**

**7:00 PM**

Today was…exhausting.

And…informative?

I don't know. I don't know what to think.

"That's a nice look," was the first thing Tudor said to me when I opened the door.

It was unseasonably warm today, so I wore a black dress that ended at my knees, the scoop-neck of it white, and my favorite choker necklace-- the one with the crescent moon hanging from it.

I said nothing in response. Just glanced, in mild curiosity, at what he wears when he doesn't have to wear the school uniform.

Jeans and his soccer jersey (he plays forward) and letterman, apparently.

He's number 91.

Not that it matters.

"You know," he continued, "in civilized society, one typically responds to a compliment with a 'thank you'."

"I see no need to do that when the 'compliment' is obviously sarcastic."

"It wasn't," he said, rolling his eyes, "it is a nice look. You could wear...we have casual Fridays, you know."

"Yes," I replied, "once a month. Whatever shall I do with all that freedom?"

He spun his car keys in his hands, mouth pursed.

"Girls are copying you already, actually."

"Excuse me?"

"The ribbons, I mean. On the…"

"Thigh highs?"

"Whatever they're called," he mumbled, flicking a charm on the ring of keys (a silver heart that read _'coeur loyal_ "),  "yeah."

He's so…weird.

No good morning. Just a "nice look". And strange commentary on the fashion choices of girls at Hampton.

"Well, thanks, then. I guess."

"You're welcome, then. I guess."

At this point Dad wandered past the doorway, glasses on, newspaper in hand, and looked up, startled to see Tudor there, I suppose.

"Hi," Tudor said, inflection more question than greeting.

Dad took off his glasses and stared at him, unblinking.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked, squinting.

"Dad," I said, (patiently, I might add, to my merit), "I told you I had a project--"

"Don't be fucking rude!" George (my older brother, using the weekend for free laundry here) hollered from the kitchen, out of sight.

"We don’t say 'fuck' in this house!" my dear father yelled in return.

"You said it last night when the President was on TV!" he yelled back.

"That is the _exception_ to that rule and you know it!"

"Not a Bush fan, then?" Tudor asked mildly, hands in pockets.

"No. Are you?" Dad asked, titling his chin upwards, a test, clearly.

"No. Our President should be handsome."

"Why?"

"Inspires confidence. Symbolic of the country, and all that. Bush's head is too small for his body," Tudor said, in totally deadpan manner.

This comment elicited a snort of laughter from Dad(I'd have been embarrassed, if anyone else but Tudor was there), and a, "Yes…quite."

And then, because my father never leaves well enough alone when it comes to Republicans, he tilted his head to the side and asked, "Is that your only reason?"

"No," Tudor said with a shrug, "tip of the iceberg. He has the charisma of a piece of toast, can't seem to string a sentence together, which is really quite inexcusable, especially considering that he has speech-writers at his disposal to help him do so. He didn't even win the popular vote, for another thing. But…I suppose that had the added benefit of informing ignorant Americans that the presidential election is at the mercy of an arbitrary electoral system. Since many weren't aware of it, before he won. By default."

I recalled the speech on ethnocentrism yesterday. Apparently small monologues are like…his thing. It's strange. It's almost as if he memorizes paragraphs and stores them away for later. Perhaps it's a photographic memory thing, I thought (at the time).

But, small monologue or no, Dad was quite pleased by it, laughed again and said, "I like you."

"Thank you," Tudor responded, all sweetness, with a nod of his head and a close-mouthed smile.

Then Tudor looked over at me, and Dad did the weirdest face-heel-turn I've seen in a while. Something in his dark eyes flickered behind the spectacles, he narrowed them, and added, "…maybe."

Leaving Tudor rather shell shocked.

Perhaps he's never received an "I like you…maybe."

I suppose he hadn't.

"Right," I said, plucking my book bag and grey hoodie (Mia-- short for Amelie, but she hates the 'French pretentiousness of the name', which is utterly the reason my father chose it, and doesn't answer to Amelie, ever-- my older sister, left it behind when she started her freshman year at Brown, so I've decided it's mine now) off the hook next to the door, "anyways, we should be going, so…"

"Of course," Dad said, kissing me on the forehead, once, "have fun, darling."

"I will not!" I said, cheerily (aimed towards Tudor, of course, met with the response of a grimace) and Dad said "Mmm-hmm, okay," clearly no longer paying attention, before turning around and heading back to the kitchen.

And then--

Mom's calling me down for dinner. So I'll write more later, I guess.


	5. glycerine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Spice Girls?"
> 
> Tudor cleared his throat before checking the rearview mirror (he seemed to be a pretty good driver, actually…very big on the 10 and 2 thing, wasn't taking his hands off the wheel to stop me, admirably, but that was probably a concern for his own mortality, not mine), glanced at the album in my hand, shrugged once and said, "I've never seen that before."

** Taped piece of paper (last page, diary of Henry Tudor): **

> **so, the fuck did you mean by 'it's intracate'?**
> 
> _'Intricate', Brandon. And I just meant there were a lot of factors at play._
> 
> **like…fucking what? and how did you know what to…say?**
> 
> _Educational materials._
> 
> **…you're annoying.**
> 
> _Yup! :-)_
> 
> **can you be more specific?**
> 
> _Do you have sisters?_
> 
> **no.**
> 
> _I have four and usually they're nightmares. But, the bonus is that they leave their girly magazines everywhere._
> 
> **they read porno mags?**
> 
> _What? No! What the fuck is wrong with you?_
> 
> **that's what girly magazines means!**
> 
> _No it's not! Who even…no, I mean like YM, Cosmogirl, Jane, Seventeen…that sort of shit._
> 
> **and that helps?**
> 
> _For sure. It lends a view into the teenage girl psyche, and also the kind of articles they read and absorb. Advice on flirting, how they view guys, etc._
> 
> **…how?**
> 
> _Okay, I'm going to break this down step by step for you:_
> 
> _1.) She didn't introduce herself. I knew her name. Thus, she knows I asked about her._
> 
> _2.) The 'advice on how to make yourself more approachable to guys' articles usually go something like this: approach him alone, don't always glom onto your girlfriends, etc., they're more likely to talk to you if you're not standing in a group, because it's less intimidating:_
> 
> _a.) The default assumption is that guys are cowards. I make myself unique by not being a coward, and approaching a girl even whilst she's in a group._
> 
> _1a.) Confidence is attractive. This demonstrates confidence besides._
> 
> _b.) Here's another element to singling her out with a compliment in front of her friends: she is the center of attention. Her friends see this, and are jealous, probably, at least a little bit. This bolsters her confidence, in turn._
> 
> **that all?**
> 
> _No, of course that's not fucking all, I was just taking a break to write my locker combo in my planner. Also: do we always have to be silent in study hall? It's a little eerie._
> 
> **yeah, we do. i usually bring my walkman, though, that's allowed.**
> 
> _Noted. Alright, so:_
> 
> _3.) If you notice, I complimented her outfit. But I didn't leave it at that. Leaving it at that is the problem my brother always fucking has, and he never learns._
> 
> _a.) You don't compliment the dress, you compliment the girl that's wearing the dress. You have to emphasize that it looks nice on her, specifically, or that she wears it well._
> 
> _1a.) If you compliment the dress, that's a fashion compliment, not a her compliment. It says you noticed the dress, and not her. And she'll probably just think you're gay._
> 
> _4.) You say goodbye first. It throws her off. And she'll be expecting you to approach her again; she'll be waiting for it._
> 
> **and you do that?**
> 
> _No, of course not. You wait until she approaches you next._
> 
> **what if she doesn't?**
> 
> _Usually she does. And if she doesn't…well, unless she's the only one you'd ever consider dating, it's not like you can't do the same thing with other girls. One of them will. And if the first one liked you, she'll get jealous, and ask you out before the second one can._
> 
> _Anyways, that about sums it up. Well, for what I put into play today, anyway. I know quite a bit more than that._
> 
> **holy shit. well…thanks.**
> 
> _You're welcome. Also: is there a football team here?_
> 
> **nah, that starts in the fall…and soccer's where it's at here, anyway.**
> 
> _Oh, right. That was what I meant, sorry._
> 
> **?**
> 
> _I went to boarding school in Wales before I transferred here, and I was on the team. They call it football there, I forgot._
> 
> **ah. well, try-outs were a bit ago, but i can put a good word for you with the coach.**
> 
> _Thanks._

* * *

**Diary of Henry Tudor**

**April 2, 2002, Wednesday**

**11:01 PM**

The kissing was a funny story, actually. It went something like this:

Spin the Bottle at Kate Aragon's house at a party when her parents were on their anniversary trip in Barcelona (she's quite the angel, really, so no Seven Minutes in Heaven allowed, but I suppose she believes God isn't opposed to kissing, which I _think_ is correct…anyways, irrelevant).

We're all slightly tipsy, but no one's drunk, since it's fairly early in the party (like 11, or something), and it's Brandon's turn.

He flipped the bottle of champagne around, as you do, and it landed on me.

"No," he groused, "no fucking way."

And there's girls pushing on his shoulder and giggling ensuing and I ignored all this, shrugged, crossed the circle and sat down in front of him.

"Don't be a baby," I said, and kissed him, quickly, before he could jerk away (he didn't, actually, which was surprising, given his verbal reaction to where the bottle landed, but maybe the booze had slowed down his reaction time), then moved back to my spot, crossing my legs.

"What the _fuck_ ," he snapped, face flaming red.

"Well, whatever," I said, "it's only fair…the girls have to kiss when they land on each other, so the same should go for us. It's a ridiculous double standard otherwise."

Thus the catalyst for the beginning of Andrea Hastings and I, who turned to me and cooed, "Wow, that's so…feminist of you."

"It _is_ ," I said, to murmuring agreement of other girls, "it _is_ , isn't it?"

One of them rested her head on my shoulder. I don't remember who.

The guys in the circle were stunned, of course, looking between each other like _is this shit actually working_ , but no one looked more stunned than Brandon.

Brandon stared at me, brow furrowed, and I grinned, then said, "Are you going to pass me that, or what?"

Dazed, he pushed the bottle across the circle and I caught it before spinning it.

Lo and behold, it landed on him.

"Rules are rules," I said, turned around to take a swig from the bottle of beer, sitting behind me on the floor, and readied to go over there again.

But, when I turned back, there he was. He looked angry, cheeks rosy still, blue eyes sharp.

"Let's just get this over with," Brandon mumbled, before pressing his mouth to mine, bumping my nose as he did. I opened my mouth (Frenching is required after the second spin between two people in a row, after all) to ensuing catcalls. I tried to make it less awkward, of course, I didn't want our teeth to clack together or anything gross like that, but he leaned in closer and they did anyway.

"Why did you bite my tongue?" I asked, quietly.

I had slid it inside his parted lips, of course, only to have him push it out, teeth scraping against it.

"Why was it in my mouth," he whispered, and I rolled my eyes (because, really, could he _be_ more immature), before pushing him off, and he sulked back to his spot in the circle again.

He glowered, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, so I did the same with mine.

But I was pleased, secretly.

Because I highly doubt he'll ever forget it.

* * *

 

**Diary of Anne Boleyn**

**October 5, 2002, Saturday**

**8:31 PM**

First of all: what 18-year-old has a Lexus?

A fucking… _Lexus_?

My parents wouldn't even buy me a bicycle that cost over $500.

Well, Tudor does…of course. And Tudor also seems to have a thing for opening doors, given that he walked over to the passenger side and held it open.

> **Me:** What are you doing?
> 
> **Him:** Waiting for you to get inside. What are YOU doing?
> 
> **Me:** Why are you holding the door open?
> 
> **Him:** *sighing in exasperation* Boleyn, I feel like we've been over this.
> 
> **Me:** Do you somehow think opening doors for me makes up for your rude comments? Because that's not really how life works.
> 
> **Him:** No. You're still a girl, though.
> 
> **Me:** What does that have to do with literally anything--
> 
> **Him:** Although I haven't ruled out she-devil, of course.
> 
> **Me:**
> 
> **Him:**
> 
> **Me:**
> 
> **Him:** Are we leaving this driveway some time in the next century, or…?
> 
> **Me:** Fine.

So I slipped onto the leather seat, pulled my bag over my lap, and watched as he literally shut the door for me, too. The contrast of 1950s manners and jackass words is constantly jarring. I think I'd prefer it if he was just, like…consistently an asshole.

I saw a cup of coffee in one of the cup-holders, and a grease-spotted bag over the partition. Very little in the way of decoration save for one of those hanging evergreen air freshener things, and I was already getting a book out of my bag by the time he slid into the driver's seat.

"Is this for me?" I asked, nodding, to the coffee cup.

Tudor grabbed the paper bag, put his keys into the ignition, started the car and began to pull out of my driveway.

He looked both ways, and in the rearview mirror, before pulling out into the street.

"No," he said, biting into a hash-brown.

" _Nice_."

I opened the book to the place I had saved with a highlighter and started to read (there's an exam on Monday and why converse when it wasn't needed, I figured).

"Listen," Tudor said, pulling out a bottle of orange juice from the bag and taking a sip, "if you could like, try your best to not be annoying for the next twenty minutes…that would be swell."

"I've barely said--"

"You can literally order anything you want at my house, for breakfast. The coffee is for someone else, but we'll have that too. _I_ have to eat right now, and I have to eat a lot. So, just…relax."

"I'm relaxed."

"Great."

"Why do you have to eat a lot?"

"To maintain weight and because I have to before I…stop asking questions."

"Fine," I said, opening his glove compartment.

"What the fuck," he said, hands clenching on the wheel, "are you doing, Boleyn?"

"Well, I can't _ask_ what music you have, so I'm looking--"

"I don't really listen to music," he said, voice sounding strained, "so just--"

"Everyone listens to…Bach? Aw! You're a nerd."

" _You're_ a nerd. I'm…classic."

"A _classics nerd_. Or a _classical_ nerd, rather--" 

"Stop looking through my shit--"

" _Spice Girls_?"

Tudor cleared his throat before checking the rearview mirror (he seemed to be a pretty good driver, actually…very big on the 10 and 2 thing, wasn't taking his hands off the wheel to stop me, admirably, but that was probably a concern for his own mortality, not mine), glanced at the album in my hand, shrugged once and said, "I've never seen that before."

"How'd it get in your car, then?" I said, reading the tracklist on the back of the CD case.

"I have sisters," he snapped, "one of them probably left it the last time they--"

" _So_ ," I sang, softly (under my breath, almost, as I looked out the window), tapping the beat on my knee, "[tell me what you want what you really, really want](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gJLIiF15wjQ)\--"

"Do. _Not_."

"Fine," I said, putting it back, "but I'm not sitting in awkward silence. So you're going to have to pick something."

"I will do no such--"

"Oh!" I exclaimed, remembering, I started to look through my bag, "I brought _Tidal_ , actually, I can put that in--"

"There has never been, nor will there ever be, emotionally wrought teenage girl angst music playing in my Lexus."

" _So_ dramatic…and she's _not_ \--"

"Blanket veto on Fiona Apple, Alanis Morissette, and anyone else that's made a career out of whining into a microphone."

"You've probably just never listened to--"

 "Unless sex is occurring, and," he added, giving me a quick, pointed once-over before moving his eyes to back to the road, "it _definitely_ is not."

"Oh my _God, ew_!" I squealed, lifting my hands from the seat like I'd been burned, "you better sanitize, Tudor, I am rolling out of this car if--"

"I don't fuck in the front seats. I'd get leg cramps."

"Great, that's… _ugh_ , I'll just play whatever you have in here, I guess."

"Whatever. Fine," he grumbled, shoving a blueberry muffin into this mouth.

I pushed the power button on the radio console, and then the eject button for the disc.

"'H + G'," I read aloud, from the Sharpie'd silver disc, "'Happy…heart sign…' oooh, is this from Gemma?"

" _No_ , it's from my _grandmother_ ," he said, peevishly.

"You're a bad liar," I said, sliding it back in, and then:

> _'[it must be your skin/i'm sinking in/it must be for real/'cause now i can feel'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UR0cpYtkBWI)_

"Right. So. Your grandmother listens to Bush, then?"

"Shut up."

"You listen to _this_? And you have the audacity to call _Apple_ angsty, wow--"

"It's," he said, turning the volume dial up, "a good song. You might learn something."

"I might _learn something_?"

Like… _I_ might learn something???

Who does he think he is? _Honestly_ …

> _'everything's gone white/and everything's grey/now you're here now you're away….'_

Also? Talk about whining into the microphone. Jesus.

"Do you need to get your hearing checked?" he drawled, and then I noticed we were driving down a windy road, obscured by large, leafy trees, that I had never been down before. The houses were becoming larger as we passed, larger and farther and farther apart from each other.

> _'don't let the days go by…glycerine, glycerine…'_

"Do _you_?" I asked.

"Do _you_ \-- yeah! You might learn something. Don't sound so…fucking surprised _."_

Some of them were gorgeous, Victorian, with windows of stained glass and wrap-around porches, and then we went down past  a sign marked "private road" that was so wooded that sunlight barely came through.

> _'i'm never alone/i'm alone all the time/are you at one/or do you lie...'_

"She didn't like…get it," he said, abruptly, "but…I don't know. She did that a lot."

"What?"

"No, she'd like, pick a song…for a mix, like this one," he said, tapping the speaker, "and she'd only pick it because of one line that she liked. And she'd ignore the rest of it."

"O…kay. So?"

"So…I don't know. It's…'when we rise it's like strawberry fields?' Was the only part she liked, or would sing along to. And that's not even what the song's about, like, it's pretty, but it's not what it's about. So. It's annoying."

"If you say so."

"Whatever. She's annoying. She annoys me."

"Interesting."

"What?"

"That you care enough to be annoyed by her."

"I don't…that's not a _thing_ … _you_ annoy me, and I don't care about _you_."

"Well, likewise," I said, coolly, "but we're talking about an ex. It's different."

"Like _you're_ so well-versed in exes."

"I know I don't keep mixtapes or CD's from exes when I'm over them, so…wait. Where are we?"

"Connecticut."

"Why are you such a _dick_ \--"

"My driveway. Chill."

"Long driveway. And I _have_ exes. Don't think I missed that."

"Name _one_ ," he said with a confident smirk, as if he doubted it! He read my letter from Harry, so…obviously he was just trying to get to me, but it bothered me, anyway.

"James Butler."

"Sounds made-up."

"I wish he was. He was an asshole. Irish. That's how I learned…that gingers are the root of all evil."

"Yeah, okay. So, first of all: not even a subtle dig. Second of all, not remotely accurate: you're friends with Aragon. Try again."

"Oh, sorry, you're right, I should've specified: _male_ gingers are the root of all evil."

"Do you _ever_ shut--"

And then he stopped, suddenly, mid-sentence. Not trailing off, but like he had been interrupted, and then he laughed, and shook his head. Like something had surprised him, or like...he had surprised himself. It was odd.

"Wait a second," he said, before easing onto the brakes, and I noticed that the private road did, actually, look more like a driveway, now. Very yellow-brick road, minus the yellow. Curving, still, like a river.

On the driver's side were apple trees, lined up in pretty rows. On mine was what looked like a hedge maze, and Tudor parked and got out, coffee in hand, and walked across the length of the bumper, over to the maze.

I couldn't make out the appearance of who he handed the cup to, other than that it was a man with a hat that shielded his eyes. The gardener, probably, judging by the shears in his hand.

He didn't tell me, just got back into the car and kept driving.

"So," I said, "this song is…weird. I don't know why you're--"

"What's weird about it?" he asked, flicking the back button and replaying it.

"'I'm never alone; I'm alone all the time?' What does that even mean? Maybe your girlfriend--"

" _Ex_ girlfriend--"

"Didn't get it because it doesn't make _sense_."

"It makes sense," he said, indignant, as we finally pulled up to the circular drive in front of his house ('house'...which doesn't even look like somewhere people live, more like somewhere people give tours), "it's just a way of describing being around people and still feeling lonely anyway."

Tudor shifted the car into park, next to a fountain with lily pads floating over the water, and turned the ignition off.

I stared at him.

"What?" he asked, drumming his fingers against the wheel, turning to look at me, brow drawn tight.

"Interesting," I said, evenly, fiddling with the moon charm on my choker, "that's all."

"Don't…don't look at me like that," he said, pushing his keys into the pocket of his sweatshirt, "I know what you're doing. Stop doing it."

"Doing what?"

I knew what. The unnerving stare. One of my better talents.

' _Like boring into the soul_ ', Harry said, shortly after we met. It was a poor attempt at flirting, but…I fell for it, anyway.

"Don't _analyze_ my analysis, Boleyn."

"Mmm," I said, with a shrug, hoisting my bag back over my shoulder, "whatever."

"I didn’t say _I_ felt that way."

"Mm-hmm."

"That's just clearly what it means, is... _God_. Never fucking mind," he snapped, grabbing his paper bag, "let's go."

I found out he wasn't kidding about 'ordering food'. Their maid sidled up to me right away after we stepped inside the foyer, offered to take my jacket (I declined, because it was cold inside), and offered coffee and breakfast.

Once we got the kitchen/dining room area, he sat down at the table, covered in a lacy tablecloth, immediately, kicking off his shoes. There was already a pile of books, a notebook, note cards and writing supplies there, neatly lined up.

There was a pink post-it, words written on it in slanted handwriting, on the island that I picked up and read aloud:

"'Dear Hal'-- is that you?"

"Give me that," he snapped, getting up, cheeks turning pink, "stop--"

"'Please unload the dishwasher. Will be back around 8. Little heart drawing, comma, Mom.' Aw. That's adorable--"

He yanked it out of my hand, fuming, and shoved it into his pocket, before opening the door of a stainless steel apparatus to the left of the sink, and started to do the asked task.

"So," I said, sitting down on one of the barstools of the island, "I don't really know much about rich people, but…isn't that something your 'staff' can do, or--"

"She has us do it," he said, "she says she doesn't want us to get spoiled."

'Us' meaning him and his siblings, I assumed.

I looked around the enormity of the room, the expensive art pieces on the walls, considered the size of the house in general and…it seemed unlikely. That that sort of chore would be effective in that regard, but it's admirable that she tries, I suppose.

After he left with an abrupt "I'll be right back", I flipped through his notes (the notebook was open, so I assumed that was fine), and compared them to some of my own. Ironically, given our conversation on "Glycerine" in the car, our assignment was to analyze, compare and contrast two or more pieces of poetry (more, if extra credit was desired)…and they had to  be pieces we hadn't read in class.

The rubric's more detailed than that, but that was the gist, anyway.

While he was gone, their maid served me coffee and an omelet and I thanked her (I asked for her name and she laughed and shook her head…maybe she's not supposed to be familiar with guests? I don't know…it's all very…formal, she even wore that sort of black and white uniform with the apron, and I thought that was just in movies).

Tudor came back after…15 or 20 minutes or so, and sat back down at the head of the table. He rolled and cracked his neck, and uncapped a pen, saying, "Right, let's begin."

I thought I was imagining it, maybe, but he seemed…different. Even whilst driving he fidgeted, thumbs tapping against the wheel, worrying his earlobe in between his hands at red lights, alternatively yawning and twitching his nose back and forth, like a rabbit. But he was fairly still now, didn't seem tired at all, a certain clarity was in the blue of his gaze, his focus intent upon the page.

"I brought 'The Lady of Shalott'," I said, removing the printed page from my folder, "I thought we could tie it the King Arthur readings that are on the reading list."

"Okay," he said, writing the title down on the page, "that's not…terrible."

"Your handwriting is almost identical," I said, pointing to the page.

"Hmm?" he said, scanning the poem, index running down the stanzas, tapping against lines I'd highlighted.

"To your mom's, I mean."

It really was: the same slant, the same curve. Genetic or taught, perhaps both…but probably not coincidental.

"Oh," he said, smiling, softly, "yeah. It is."

A human moment. What a concept.

So, we were reading and comparing and narrowing choices down for a few minutes when I heard footsteps and saw Tudor tense, suddenly.

"I thought you were going to be at a charity thing," he said, addressing someone over my shoulder.

I turned around in my chair and only saw the back of the person he was talking to, since he was opening the fridge, but heard, "Oh, I'm not allowed to be at my own house?"

"That's not…no. I just didn't expect you here," Tudor said, quietly, then, cleared his throat, "that's all."

The older man turned back around. I recognized the nose, the largeness and the shape of it, and thus figured out who he was pretty quickly. His dark hair was slicked back, with a streak of prominent grey, his suit pressed, dark blue, with a handkerchief sticking out of the front jacket pocket.

"I haven't met you," he said, setting his bottle of water down on the table, "a classmate, I assume?"

I got up from my chair and made introductions with Henry Tudor. Sr. (firm handshake, and he commented appreciatively on mine).

"You're new to Hampton?" he asked, and I nodded, "how do you like it so far?"

"Oh, fine," I said, breezily, "I've made friends already, so that's nice."

"Like?" Sr. asked, drinking from his water bottle.

"Kate Aragon, I think she said she knows you--"

"Ah, yes. Little Catalina…did she tell you that English isn't even her first language?" he asked, crossing his arms.

I sort of remembered what Kate had said when I asked her about Tudor's dad. That he wasn't charismatic, but that he tried too hard. I was definitely getting that vibe, there just...wasn't a lot of warmth there? An _attempt_ at warmth, sure, but...truthfully, even his hand was cold. 

"Oh…no, she didn't--"

"Mmhmm. She moved here from Spain, as a child, learned. And yet she's top of her class."

"Oh, I know, she's really--"

And then he talked over me, again. A Tudor trait, perhaps, although Tudor himself certainly wasn't chiming in with his father at this point (or, at all, actually).

"Amazing, isn't it? What one can overcome when they really put their mind to it. Despite the challenges, the obstacles. Don't you agree, Henry?" he called out, leaning against the door of the fridge, arms still crossed.

I turned, slightly, to see Tudor, smiling in a strange, smug sort of way that didn't quite reach his eyes.

" _Subtle_ , Dad," he said, squinting, slightly, before closing his notebook, removing a pen that was atop his ear, tucked into reddish curls, "nice."

"Oh," Sr. scoffed, as Tudor gathered the rest of the materials into a pile, "come, don't be so sensitive. I didn't mean anything by--"

"You know what, we actually have to go the library for the rest of this," Tudor continued, taking his sweatshirt off the back of his chair and zipping it up, "We need more sources, so--"

"We have a perfectly good library here. Our computers are better, too," he said (this part, directed at me), "which I'm sure is no surprise--"

"Public one's bigger," Tudor said,  grinning, still, with a shrug, "so…"

"We're supposed to go to a reference desk, actually," I lied, uneasy, I went back to the table and grabbed my bag, put my own school stuff in there, and put it over my shoulder.

"You're being rude to your guest," he said, coolly, jaw clenched.

"No, it's fine, we were just about to go anyway," I said, turning around to leave with him, but Tudor had already left the kitchen.

"Um…nice to meet you," I said (another lie) before leaving.

I tried to catch him up with him, but by the time I opened the front door and walked outside, he was already in his car.

\--Aaagh, I just missed a call from Mia and she left a voicemail. She's barely called since she's started college, so I'm going to call her back-- will write more later. ♥

**Author's Note:**

> the "a mary" thing was totally inspired by gilmore girls, so wanted to give credit where credit is due.
> 
> will try to update as much as possible (i know i am trash and wow, am starting another series when I have not one but TWO WIPs for henry/anne on AO3 already...and now three...oops).
> 
> i have a fifteen credit college course load and i work as cashier, so the combined typing and checking and bagging groceries and stocking is absolute MURDER on the wrists, tbh. the wrists and also the energy.
> 
> and with my WIP's, it's not so much that i don't have outlines/know where i'm going with the next chapter: it's more finding both the time, energy, and inspiration simultaneously to complete them, that is the real challenge. for me, anyway.
> 
> changed some of the names:
> 
> margot = margaret tudor (margaret beaufort will be discussed further in this fic and i wanted to eliminate confusion).
> 
> harry percy = henry percy
> 
> thomas more is, btw, henry's former english teacher and thomas cromwell is his current one, in case that was not clear.
> 
> c'est vrai = is that right?  
> voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir? = would you like to go to bed with me tonight?
> 
> (2002 is after Moulin! Rouge was released, in 2001, and given that Christina Aguilera and others did a remake of the song "Lady Marmalade" for the movie, that used this phrase, it made sense to me that it would be well-known)
> 
> also, the strike-through on texts just means that that word was crossed out after it was written, by the writer. "her legs (strikethrough) are nice (end strike through)", for example.


End file.
